


Just We Two

by cklls



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-02
Updated: 2015-04-12
Packaged: 2018-02-11 11:17:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 71,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2066136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cklls/pseuds/cklls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco tells the story of his post-war descent into self-destruction, and how a chance encounter with a broken woman changed the trajectory of both of their lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, lovelies! This story will not be a pretty one like "Essence of Life" and will likely be even more gritty at points than "Covered." That being said, it's the story of a journey not unlike that of many veterans, and the daunting struggles they face in finding their way back to functioning in the battle after the war.
> 
> This tale is written in first person, past tense, told almost entirely from Draco's perspective. Hermione's appearances will be spotty, at best, for the first few chapters, but she'll return with a vengeance down the line. There will be very little interaction with other main Potter characters, but their "off-page" actions will be significant plot-drivers. I hope you'll find this story compelling and worth your time!

I’m the very last bloke that anyone on the planet would call a hero. Truth be told, I’ve been called a coward more than once, so whatever possessed me to get involved in the situation I’d encountered was well beyond my conscious comprehension. I suppose there could have been some sense of obligation. She had, after all, insisted that Potter not leave me behind to burn in the hell that was the Room of Hidden Things, although that seemed a lifetime ago. I also was taught that any man who fails to aid a woman in such dire straits is an absolute shit, and I guess that my acknowledgement of the circumstances meant that I couldn’t walk away and keep any shred of the minimal self-respect that I still had. Those are the closest explanations that I can offer and, until something more plausible occurs to me, I’ll stick with that.

I thought I was fucked up – and by any and every definition, I truly am – but she made me look like a teetotaler. I thought I’d seen her once before, but I was too high at the time to accurately recognize my own mother; I decided that she had to have been a figment of my imagination. After all, what would the great and vaunted Hermione Granger be doing hanging out with stoners and freaks in the back alleys of Liverpool? The second time, though, the supposed hallucination of my former academic rival turned out to be all too real. Since I wasn’t quite as wasted as usual, I was capable of both recognizing her and appreciating the clear and imminent danger in which she was embroiled. So I dived in, quite literally, and pulled her away bodily from the two assailants who had pinned her, with aid of a very ugly flick knife at her throat, against the brick wall of a sorry excuse for a pub. Although I didn’t often use magic these days, this seemed to be a situation that called for its subtle application, and the charm that I used to temporarily immobilize the two men – and I use the term generously – was sufficient for me to pull the damsel out of her precarious position.

I’m not certain whether it was because she was so completely blitzed or just an ungrateful bitch, but I didn’t even get a muttered “thanks” for rescuing her sorry arse. She just tugged her arm out of my grasp and stumbled off into the night. Regardless of her snub, whether it was of me personally or of help in general, I had the feeling that I hadn’t seen the last of Hermione Granger.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco shares his immediate post-war plan.

I remember vividly that I was still gasping for breath, my chest heaving with a sob now and again, almost an hour after tumbling off the back of Potter’s broom once we escaped the Fiendfyre. My… friend was dead and I’d come within seconds and inches of joining him. I’d lost my wand in the process when it rolled under a huge pile of furniture that was quickly consumed by magical flame and being unarmed added exponentially to my list of anxieties. The battle was still raging all around me, but I was paralyzed by fear, grief, and indecision. I huddled in an alcove near what had been the entrance of the Room of Requirement on the seventh floor and wanted nothing more than to have all of it – the noise, the stench, the destruction – just disappear. I wanted to disappear. In fact, I’d been methodically planning for just that scenario for months. Now, though, I also had the added burden of being wandless, and that was an enormous complication if I wanted to make a break for it.

The way I saw it, no matter who won, I was screwed. My ability to hide my disgust and disdain for the morons who followed the Dark Lord was absolutely nil, and I’d made no friends – or maybe I should say allies – among the group. Even my relationship with my parents was strained to the breaking point. I’d lost respect for my father for his blind allegiance to a clearly insane megalomaniac and my mother for her meek and silent acquiescence. As much as I’d rejected Voldemort’s methods, if not the entire message of pureblood supremacy, I couldn’t truthfully claim to have enthusiastically embraced the tenets of those on the opposite side of the conflict. Thus, if Potter and his crew triumphed, I felt certain that I’d find little mercy from them. There was ample evidence of my crimes against Muggle-borns and blood traitors, however halfhearted or coerced they might have been, and I’d be facing, at the very least, an unbearably long sentence in Azkaban. The only mitigating factor that might have saved me from the Kiss was that my reluctance in each of those circumstances was reasonably well-documented. I’d earned more than one Cruciatus curse from the Carrows when I wasn’t quick enough to cast one of my own against a wayward classmate, and more than one person could testify to my dismay at being forced to punish people, especially the little ones. Merlin only knows why, but I apparently had a soft spot for young children.

My disillusionment had been growing steadily, fed by the fiasco that had been the Easter holidays at home with the Dark Lord and his minions as our “house guests.” It was clear to me who ruled the roost at the manor, and it certainly wasn’t my father. He’d been effectively unmanned by that snake-faced freak, culminating in the moment that he’d been stripped of his wand. Might as well have sliced off his nuts. For me, that had been a defining moment, and my already wavering commitment began to fracture in large chunks.

I began to pull away from the horrors the only way I knew how – self-medicating with wine and Firewhisky from what was left of my father’s stash. He was toasted all the time. Why shouldn’t I take the same small comfort? I found that it momentarily dulled the memories and relieved the creeping sense of guilt that seemed to compound with every curse and hex I cast. I couldn’t understand the monsters who so blithely and casually tortured and murdered people who really hadn’t committed any crime other than disagreeing with their opposites’ viewpoints. That may be reason for an argument, but certainly not for taking another magical life.

I’d never taken kindly to being forced to do anything, but the special hell of being compelled to cast Unforgiveable curses was too much for even an arse like me. When Alecto Carrow Crucioed me for being too slow to cast the same spell on a first-year as punishment for speaking too loudly in the corridors, that was the straw that broke this camel’s back. The trip to the infirmary that resulted from a curse that flung me into a wall, breaking two ribs and my left wrist, was when I started consuming pain potions and Dreamless Sleep draughts. I rationalized that it was better than either the nightmares or the chronic insomnia. Nobody warned me about the side-effects and consequences.

At seventeen, regardless of being a legal adult in the wizarding world, I suppose that I was just mature enough to be as dangerous to myself as I could be to others. I was reasonably skilled in subterfuge, and I could sneak about the castle grounds without being caught (as long as I remembered to wear my hooded cloak or cast a glamour to hide my identity – blasted blond hair). I used that skill to squirrel away the provisions that I thought I might need to make a break for it, should that become necessary. Clothing, of both the wizard and Muggle varieties, basic toiletries (at the time, grooming seemed like something I might give a shit about), some easily portable and long-lasting foodstuffs, and money. Lots and lots of money. My parents had always given me a ridiculously generous allowance, and I had access to a vault of my own at Gringotts. I lived like a pauper, or a Weasley, I suppose, spending only what was absolutely necessary for close to six months, and withdrew just under half of what I had in the vault. It’s amazing how much cash you can accumulate when you think your life depends on it (turns out, it did). I figured that I’d come into my inheritance sooner or later, if the Ministry didn’t confiscate the whole thing for reparations, and if my father disowned me, assuming he survived the war, I still had about twenty thousand Galleons that I’d left behind. There were also two trust funds, not likely to be subject to Ministry appropriation, I chose to believe, that would become available if I were to marry or reach the age of twenty-five, whichever came first. (I thought neither was terribly likely.) It was far more than most people had, so I thought I’d still be ahead of the game, should I be lucky enough to see my eighteenth birthday and beyond. My only concern was about the security of carrying that much gold and such a wad of banknotes, and I solved that by transfiguring the coins to resemble a few large tins of lemon drops – which I abhor and would never try to consume, no matter how famished I might be – and the notes, a great majority of them of the Muggle variety, into seven faux books, all appearing to be in German, a language that I can speak passably but can’t read worth a damn. A quick wandless spell would remove the enchantments, allowing me access to my funds as needed. As much as my father claimed to despise them, he regularly found ways to both legally, and… not, do business with people in the Muggle world and profit handsomely in the process. Thus, I’d learned a thing a two about the British pound and how to use it. That would also come to play an invaluable role in my survival, as, I quickly found, it wasn’t always possible to find a Wizarding bank that would exchange my Galleons without asking far too many questions.

Since I couldn’t easily carry a trunk around with me, especially in consideration of where I was likely to go, I managed to procure one of those Muggle-style duffle bags, to which I added a feather-weight charm. By procure, I mean swipe. Someone, obviously a half-blood, left one just hanging around the castle somewhere. Yeah. I shrunk what I could and added new items as I accumulated them, over the course of several weeks. The bag was hidden in an unused classroom on the third floor of the castle, not far from the corridor we’d repeatedly been warned to avoid at all costs. Although it appeared that no one other than me had been in the abandoned space in decades, I added a couple of security hexes and a Disillusion charm to the bag itself.

As part of my preparation, I watched people, too. There weren’t very many half-bloods left in the school during my seventh year, but there were enough for me to observe what they wore during their casual time. I learned that the trousers of varying shades of blue worn by both males and females were called “jeans.” They seemed to be of a very durable fabric, although not indestructible; I’d seen several pair with rips in the knees. I was able to determine with a fair degree of certainty that this was considered a “fashion statement,” often achieved with the aid of a slicing hex. Getting a couple of pair was not an easy task, but I got creative. I ordered a house-elf to bring me one from the laundry, and I duplicated it, then adjusted the fit until it was comfortable. Then I added a charm to make the adjustments permanent and conjured three more copies. Clever, if I do say so myself. The original pair was returned to its owner, no one the wiser for my temporary misappropriation.

I had my own stock of jumpers, shirts, undergarments, and a few pair of trousers in addition to the jeans. While a pair of black leather oxfords was easy to shrink and add to the bag, I had the feeling that I probably would be wearing my dragon-hide boots more frequently. The rubber-soled track shoes that many students wore were a little harder to come by, but I eventually “found” a pair abandoned in the Hufflepuff Quidditch team’s locker room. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it. I cleaned them up with at least a dozen Scourgify spells and a sanitizing charm, and got them to fit with a stretching charm, which I also made permanent. Yes, I have big feet. No, I have nothing more to say about that.

Finally, I laid in a decent stock of ready-made potions and my well-stocked portable ingredient kit, complete with collapsible cauldron. Merlin knew, there’d likely be numerous occasions when I’d have need of healing or relief of some sort. In short, I’d done everything that I could think of to prepare myself to be on my own for an extended period of time, potentially a year or more.

I’d ultimately, in those last few hours, concluded that I didn’t want to be part of a world where the Dark Lord and his cohorts ruled. It would be a very ugly place, if what I’d seen in my family’s home were any indication. And I didn’t think that I could – meaning be allowed to – live in a world where the Dark Lord had been vanquished; I’d pay a very heavy price for my apparent support, no matter how tepid it had been, and I couldn’t face the prospect of the Kiss or years behind bars in Azkaban. With all of those factors in mind, I felt that my only viable option was to leave.

So, when there was a lull in the action, followed by the Dark Lord’s gleeful announcement that Potter was dead, I crawled out of my hiding spot and picked my way through the rubble with the intention to retrieve my duffle bag. My first mission, though, was to see if I could find a wand whose owner no longer needed it. Along the way, I encountered more bodies – each of them as wandless as I was - than I could count, until I came upon the pale, bloody corpse of that blonde Gryffindor who used to giggle endlessly over one boy or another. Her throat had been ripped out, I assumed by a werewolf; this was very likely the work of Fenrir Greyback, who scared the crap out of me, mostly because he’d spent more hours sniffing around me than I cared to recall. I found her wand, still clutched in her hand, and tugged it from her stiffening fingers, thanking her silently and pausing only long enough to empty my stomach of the meager excuse for lunch I’d had many hours earlier. New wand in hand, I threw a quick Lumos to see if it would effectively channel my magic. It wasn’t as responsive as my own (Merlin only knew for certain where that was, although I was as confident as I could be that Potter still had it, even after the fiasco on the seventh floor) but it was not any worse than my mother’s which I’d lost to the flames a couple of hours earlier. I thought I’d be able to make do, and I was a bit surprised to note that, although it was made of a different wood and its core was anybody’s guess, it resembled my own wand in that it was very plain, unadorned and straight.

It had taken longer than I expected to get to my hidden stash, and the wails of anguish I’d heard throughout the castle grated on my every last nerve. I guessed that as many of them were over the loss of their would-be savior as they were of the wounded crying out in pain. If the Dark Lord really had prevailed, he’d be sending his minions through the castle to finish off those who’d opposed him. Those deaths were not likely to be quick or merciful, and I didn’t want to be caught up among them. My failure to fight would be considered as much a defection as if I’d stood at Potter’s side.

As I made my way down crumbling staircases and along collapsing corridors, something shifted in the nature of the cries below me. By the time I reached the fourth floor, I could hear shouts of joy, and they were definitely from young voices. I was finally close enough to get the gist; Potter, apparently, had not been slain as the Dark Lord had claimed. The battle would begin anew, and that was all the motivation I needed to find an extra burst of energy and speed to make my way one more floor downward. Along my trek, I’d made no concerted effort to determine the fate of either of my parents, and I certainly wasn’t going to waste my time trying to find them at this critical point in my escape. It would be many, many months before I learned what role they’d played in the Battle of Hogwarts. Since I believed that they’d shown only the barest minimum of concern for my welfare, I wasn’t feeling particularly charitable in my consideration of them in this pivotal moment. Saving my own skin was the only thing on my mind.

Other than the dead and incapacitated wounded, I saw no one in the badly damaged castle. It seemed that all of the action had shifted outside to the courtyard. Although the castle wasn’t silent by any stretch of the imagination, it was quieter than I expected, as though there wasn’t much happening in the way of wand-to-wand combat. I’d wager half the money in my duffle that a truly final confrontation between Potter and Voldemort was holding everyone’s attention. The outcome would determine, to a great degree, what, if any, additional skirmishes would follow. Knowing Death Eaters as I do, any who survived would run if their leader was vanquished. If the beady-eyed bastard triumphed, Dumbledore’s loyalists would fight to the last wizard standing. If I hadn’t managed to escape before the battle reached its bitter end, the sounds drifting up into the wounded castle from the courtyard would have given me sufficient clues that I could reach a reasonable conclusion about the outcome.

My goal at the time, however, was to get out before a climax was reached. Sticking around served no purpose that I could imagine. It was bordering on miraculous, if one believed in such things, that I hadn’t encountered anyone able-bodied enough to question me, never mind stop me, and I promised my undying allegiance to whatever imaginary deity might allow my luck to hold out for just five more minutes, the time I estimated I’d need to climb over the smoking heaps of rubble that remained between me and my goal.

As the piles grew larger and the smoke thicker on the lower floors, I belatedly began to worry between coughing fits over whether the abandoned classroom had actually escaped damage. Since it was in a rather out-of-the-way location, I chose to be optimistic. As I rounded the corner that led to the corridor in which the room was located, my heart pounding in my chest and in my ears, I found that my very worst fears had been averted, but that didn’t mean that there were no obstacles in my path. From my vantage point, it seemed that the classroom was relatively unscathed, but someone or something had blown a very large hole in the floor, leaving a gaping chasm between me and my survival kit.

I swallowed a groan of frustration and looked around for something that I could use to craft a makeshift bridge. While I had a wand, my broom was stuffed into the duffle bag and couldn’t be Accioed through solid stone and wood, and I wasn’t close enough for an Alohamora to work on the door, especially with a wand that didn’t yet “know” me. That had been a major miscalculation on my part; I should have shrunk my new Firebolt and kept it in my pocket. It was equally impossible to levitate myself over the hole. One could only levitate another person or an object. If I could find some boards, I could jury-rig something to lay across the hole, but I didn’t see anything nearby. Since the floor had collapsed down into the corridor below, there weren’t even many stones around that I could transfigure or enlarge, and I was concerned that if I summoned the rubble back up, someone would notice and come to investigate. A Reparo spell would not be even close to adequate for the massive damage, either. There was also no way my meager athleticism, especially with all the weight I had lost due to stress in the last several months, would allow me the skill or strength to make a leap over the breach; it was easily fifteen feet across and the most I’d ever managed in the athletic training we’d done for Quidditch was a measly six and a half, barely more than a third of what would be required to make it to the other side.

I’ve heard the saying that necessity, or desperation in this case, is the mother of invention, and I suppose this was about as desperate as I’d ever felt. I was so close to my goal, I could taste it, but there was no obvious way for me to get where I needed to go. I couldn’t waste the time to find another corridor that accessed this area, and I honestly didn’t think there was one. I had no choice but to get incredibly creative and immensely lucky. Since fortune had apparently been in my favor for the last forty minutes, I decided to trust that it - and my ingenuity - wouldn’t desert me in that urgent moment. After considering and rejecting a dozen possible solutions, I settled on casting the strongest sticking charm I could muster on both of my hands, my knees, my shins, and the inside of my forearms, and crawled, spider-like, along the vertical wall, holding my breath for the three full minutes that it took for me to reach the relative safety of the opposite side of the hole. I peeled myself off the wall slowly, crumbled to the floor, cancelled the charms, and then finally made my way to the door. It was scorched, but otherwise undamaged, and I removed the hexes I’d placed on it before releasing the locks. I tumbled into the room, shutting the door behind me as quickly and quietly as I could. I was gasping for air so hard by that point that I had no choice but to rest for a few moments so that my heart rate and breathing could return to some semblance of normal. I knew, though, that I couldn’t afford to waste any more time, so I mustered whatever fortitude I had left and retrieved the bag, which was, thank Merlin, unmolested in the still-dusty cupboard in which I’d stowed it. I removed a lightweight hooded cloak and my broom, slung the bag over my shoulder, and made my way back to the corridor, flying over the chasm in the floor and out of the first window I could find, casting a Bombarda charm to break the glass. That was to be the last time I would see Hogwarts for a very, very long time.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The immediate aftermath of Draco's escape.

Although my grades in that last year at Hogwarts may not have reflected it, I was a very capable student. I wasn’t in the very top spot, which perpetually had Granger’s name on it until she disappeared after the fiasco in the Astronomy Tower, but I wasn’t too far down the list up through the middle of our sixth year, third or fourth at worst. I was somewhere in the center of the spectrum of those who had to study for every last grade point and those who were naturally gifted, never needing to crack a book and still earning straight Os.

As such, I understood the value of research and study. Whenever I could steal an hour or two away, I hid out in the Restricted Section, perusing the few Muggle texts that hadn’t been purged from the library for clues about somewhere I could go to blend into the proverbial woodwork. London was out; there were far too many wizards running around the city and I’d have been easily recognized, even if I managed to disguise the beacon on the top of my head. My language skills were decent, not sufficient for me to operate comfortably in Germany, Spain, or Italy, but I might have been able to manage in France. I’d originally considered trying to inconspicuously hide at one of the many properties that my family owned, until I realized that there was no way to accomplish that without my father learning of my presence, and I was as eager to separate from him as his Death Eater cronies. In any event, the property just east of Lyon had been usurped by my Aunt Bella’s brother-in-law as a base of operations for expansion of the “mission” if the Dark Lord proved successful in England, Merlin help us all. I had no desire to risk a run-in with dear old Rabastan, who’d undoubtedly Avada me on sight.

All of that added up to the requirement that I disappear into a good-sized city, probably somewhere in Great Britain, that my parents would be unlikely to visit and equally unlikely to consider as a place that I’d choose for my escape. I was just as happy that they consider me dead. Merlin knew, my survival was not assured by any means.

Through my research, I narrowed my options to Manchester and Liverpool in England, which were only about twenty miles apart, and Glasgow, if I could stomach the idea of remaining in Scotland. I decided that I’d check each of them out once I’d left the castle, then make my choice about where to stay based on whatever factors struck me in the moment. This was the least cohesive part of my plot.

So, on the night of my escape, I soared into the inky sky as quickly as I was able away from the smoldering castle, glancing back only once to be certain that I wasn’t followed. I had to make a decision where I’d be making my first stop, and logic might have dictated that I get to the closest potential safe haven. Something in my gut, however, pushed me on far past Glasgow, south and west. I’m not even sure how many hours I spent in the air, although I knew that it was long past midnight, but at about the point that my arms, legs, and arse were long past numb and approaching paralysis, I found myself descending into Liverpool, its identity obvious from its location on the east side of the Mersey and, of course, the Irish Sea. If I couldn’t get lost in a city of close to a half-million people, I couldn’t get lost anywhere.

As I stumbled off my broom into a dark alley (cliché, I know, but where else would I go, right?), I realized that, although my heart had finally calmed to a slightly more normal rate and my breathing was more regular than coughs followed by gasps, my entire body was shaking like a newborn kitten. I quickly shrunk my broom and stashed it inside my duffle and, when my legs could no longer support my weight, leaned my back against a wall, sinking inexorably toward the ground. I remember choking back a sob of something – whether relief or anxiety or grief, I couldn’t accurately tell you to this day – and reached inside the interior pocket of my cloak for the silver flask of Firewhisky I’d placed there. Just to steady my nerves for a moment, I told myself. One generous swig led to five, and before I knew it, I was well on my way to utterly pissed. When I finally roused from my drunken stupor, the sun was already fairly high in the sky. Taking in my surroundings with bleary, unquestionably bloodshot eyes, if the burning was any indication, I reasoned that I’d probably only been left undisturbed because I was well tucked in between two rather massive – and now that they were warmed by the sun – exceptionally malodorous garbage receptacles. Such was my ignominious beginning as a resident of the venerable port of Liverpool.

During my research, I’d learned that there wasn’t an organized wizarding community within about fifty miles of the primarily working-class city, and I was greatly relieved that was the case. It was also the anticipation of which that had caused me to stock up as much as I could on the Muggle currency that I’d charmed into book form. The nearest exchange branch of Gringotts – other than the one in London – was about seventy miles due north, heading back toward Scotland. That was a good couple of hours by broom, probably a bit less in a Muggle conveyance, but I didn’t have ready access to, or knowledge of, how to use those modes of transportation. I resolved on that first day to locate a library where I might be able to figure out what I could make work for me, should such a trip become necessary.

Another of my imperatives was to remain incognito. I wasn’t yet sure of what I could accomplish with the wand I’d appropriated from the deceased Gryffindor girl, but I had the strong suspicion that it would be rather adept with Glamours. Although a mirror is generally helpful in such situations, there was none available, so I made do with the reflection from a dirty pane of glass, part of a window that revealed a storeroom of sorts on its opposite side. I darkened the color of my hair several shades so that it was a sandy hue, adding a bit of waviness to my usual straight-as-a-pin texture, made my eyes blue rather than their distinctive grey, squared my jaw a bit, and deepened my skin tone so that I wasn’t quite so ghostly. Someone who knew me very well might look twice at me, but to the casual observer, I was reasonably confident that I wasn’t a dead ringer for Draco Malfoy any longer. I’d learned during previous attempts at disguise that more subtle changes lasted significantly longer than more dramatic ones, and I hoped that the alterations in my appearance would be sufficient. I also noted that the spells were cast with great ease, probably more efficiently than what I might have achieved with my own hawthorn wand. I could only hope to be so lucky in its future usage.

I shrugged out of my cloak and pulled on a zip-up fleece jacket – another “gift” from a half-blood who’d carelessly left it on the back of a chair in a study room. Not yet wanting to experiment with the characteristics of my still unfamiliar wand, I resisted the urge to shrink it, stowing it in my duffle instead. I recall being concerned that it wouldn’t be immediately at hand, but it wasn’t all that far out of reach should I urgently need it. I hoped that I could wait until I was in a more secure and private location to attempt any alterations that would allow me to carry it, albeit disguised, in plain sight.

I left the alley then, intent to find somewhere that I could rest for a couple of days, get my bearings, and figure out what to do for the next several weeks. I slung my duffle over my shoulder and walked the streets for a couple of hours in search of a small inn or hotel, but found nothing of the sort in the neighborhood in which I’d landed, so close to the docks and piers, if the stench in the air provided any clue. I quickly realized that my upbringing and life experience were in dramatic conflict with my current surroundings. My research had made it clear that Liverpool was, much like any large city, a place full of contrasts and contradictions. For every gentrified, cultured, and elegant neighborhood, there was another that made the deepest recesses of Knockturn Alley seem inviting. I’d undoubtedly landed in one of the lesser areas, but that was, in the long run, probably a better choice if I wanted to remain undiscovered and anonymous, not to mention being easier on my consumption of funds. I’d calculated that, if I was relatively frugal, I could make my stash stretch out for three or four years. Such were the perks of having come from an obscenely wealthy family – I had money to spare. Access to my vaults was another story, though. If I lived as I was accustomed to, I’d barely make six months. As darkness began to fall, I resigned myself to finding something less gentile than I’d have accepted in any other circumstances. The alternative was another night in an alley, and that was out of the question. Another thirty minutes of wandering brought me to what I’d guess one would describe as a rooming house. At least, that’s how it was identified by the sign hanging lopsidedly from a pole over the door. A smaller sign propped in the window proclaimed that there were rooms to let, so it seemed to be something that deserved at least a moment of consideration.

I pushed open the door, startling briefly when a bell rang overhead. I can’t deny that I was as skittish as an alley cat, seeing the possibility of attack in every dark shadow. Behind a long wooden desk, an obese, elderly man was sitting on a rickety three-legged stool; how it hadn’t collapsed under his massive weight was a mystery for the ages. He looked up as I approached, grunting something that was either a greeting or a warning.

I cleared my throat and said, “I see you have rooms available. How much for a week?”

He looked me up and down, appraising my worth – as a paying customer or a human being, I couldn’t have said, but I certainly felt the weight of his assessment. His red-rimmed, watery eyes finally left me as he reached for a tattered and stained sheet of paper, sliding it across the surface of the desk for my inspection. It was a price list, detailing the options available – single or double rooms with private baths or efficiency kitchens, for example – and the daily, weekly, and monthly fee associated with each. Since I knew nothing about cooking, a kitchen would be fairly useless to me; I’d eat out, use up the food I’d filched from Hogwarts, or make cold sandwiches until I figured out a better plan. The private bath was an attractive option. Although I was accustomed to sharing the lavatory facilities with a handful of other young men at Hogwarts, they were people I’d known all my life. The prospect of sharing a bath or loo with strangers was, at the moment, unthinkable. The option added about twenty percent to the cost of the room, but I thought it was worth the extra expense.

“I’ll take a single room with a private bath, please. For one week,” I added. I figured there would be an option to extend my stay should it become necessary, and I wanted to get more familiar with the location before making any longer-term commitment.

He grunted again, pointing to the price on the list, and I fished the full payment out of my pocket, trying my best to hide the fairly large wad of banknotes I carried. I remember thinking that I should have converted more of the cash into my faux books and resolved to do that once I was settled into my new temporary home. The attendant grunted yet again as he counted the money to verify that I’d not shorted him and made an entry in a ledger, presumably noting which room had been claimed and for how long. Although I thought it somewhat odd that he never asked my name, I wasn’t displeased to remain anonymous. I supposed that the time would come soon enough that I would need to manufacture some kind of identity for myself. I wondered briefly if he had verbal capability to even accomplish such a question until he finally handed me a room key, rasping out, “Third floor. Second door on the left. No overnight guests without paying extra, keep the noise down, and no cooking or open flame in that room.”

I curtly nodded my acknowledgement to the corpulent man and made my way to the staircase at the far end of the lobby, hitching my bag higher on my shoulder. I recall the strong odors of sweat, tobacco smoke and something that I hoped was an ammonia-based cleaning solvent but was more likely urine as I ascended the three flights of steps. This was probably the dingiest place I’d ever visited, and that included nearly every spot I’d had occasion to frequent in Knockturn Alley. To my mind, at least, there was a difference between something old and dark and something desperately ill-kept. My new “home” was clearly the latter.

Following the desk attendant’s terse directions, I located the room, number 14C, that I’d occupy until I found something… else. I fitted the key into the lock, turned it and opened the door, although I probably could have given it an unenthusiastic, desultory push and achieved the same result. I’d be using a Colloportus charm, for certain. I could tell immediately that the previous occupant – or several of them – had been a smoker. The room reeked of it. I had more than my share of vices, but smoking cigarettes and cigars – whether Muggle or magical – was not among them. I have always abhorred the stench of tobacco. My first task once I closed the door behind me was to retrieve my wand from my duffle and cast two or three charms to freshen the stale, stinking air. When I finally felt I could breathe freely again, I dropped my bag on the bed and stripped out of the fleece jacket.

Only then did I look around to fully absorb the contents and character of the room. The space was about a third of the size of my room at the manor. I’d already stopped thinking of that horrifying place as “home.” A full-sized bed covered by a faded orange comforter was the room’s most prominent object. I despise the color orange, but I didn’t want to use more magic than was strictly necessary, so I decided to tolerate the putrid shade. The two pillows resting against the cracked faux-leather headboard looked thin and pathetic, but I supposed they’d be endurable if I stacked them together and folded them in half. I know that I’d lived my life to that point as a spoiled-rotten git, but rarely had I had to abide such abysmal conditions, and this was a shocking introduction into the way those less fortunate than I had to live. My revulsion, however, was to be short-lived as other motivations, circumstances, and reactions became more dominant in my life. The rest of my story, however, was still to unfold.

The rest of the room was no better than the bed, which had creaked loudly even against the relatively modest weight of my charmed duffle. I remember thinking that if there came a point when I thought to, uh, entertain a guest, I’d have no choice but to cast a silencing charm, lest we wake the entire block. I was not averse to using Silencing charms, either, as long as I could do it wandlessly or surreptitiously. Then again, the desk attendant had warned against having overnight guests. I guess the “overnight” part was what I chose to heed, had it become necessary. That would have been fine with me anyway. I’d never been one to cuddle. There was a small dresser against one wall, its drawers missing several of the pulls and four of the six hanging askew in one way or another. Against the wall directly opposite the door was an upholstered armchair, the color barely discernable as a washed-out lime green in the dim lighting. It occurred to me that I needed to use one of the lamps to provide some level of illumination, and I searched my memory for something from my Muggle Studies class to give me a clue about how to accomplish that. When I examined the lamp on the small rectangular table beside the chair, I found the pull chain that would turn on the bulb. Tugging on it sharply, I was rewarded with enough light to wish that the darned thing hadn’t worked after all. Now, every water stain, cobweb, tear, and blemish were on full display.

Glancing around the room, I noted two doors in addition to the one leading to the hallway. I found that one was a very small closet, no more than three feet wide and barely two feet deep, and the other led to the private bath that had been such a selling point in my decision not even ten minutes earlier. While it was probably better than the communal bath at the end of the hallway, it was no match for even the fairly nasty lavatory that I’d shared with Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, and Zabini. That had been palatial and pristine in comparison to this. There was a white porcelain commode, but “white” was a relative term in this case. It appeared to have been cleaned at some point in the last decade, so I was marginally grateful for that small mercy. A small porcelain sink hung against the wall, its faucet dripping unceasingly and leaving a circle of rust in the bottom of the basin. A metal shelf, about a foot and a half wide and five inches deep, that hung above the sink would have to suffice for organizing toiletries. Above that, an oval mirror hung, its silvering fading and crackled in several spots.

There was no tub, and that was probably a good thing. I don’t know that I could have ever brought myself to rest my naked body against its surface if there had been such a convenience. Instead, there was a three-foot-square enclosed shower stall, one’s privacy protected by a peach-colored curtain that drew along the rail at the top. Threadbare, greying towels and hand linens were folded on an open metal rack mounted on the wall to the right of the shower.

Sighing at the depressing state of my accommodations, I turned toward the john and unzipped my fly to relieve myself. Once I was done, I discovered that the hot water supply was basically nonexistent. I could only hope that allowing it to run longer in the morning would produce enough for a reasonably satisfying shower. At least there was a small wrapped cake of hand soap. I’d made note of the need to dig out my own toiletries before retiring for the night. Although I surely needed it, I just didn’t have the energy that night for a shower, so I mustered as much ambition as I could and unpacked a few necessities.

Since I was about ten years old, I’ve preferred to sleep au naturel, but the dubious cleanliness of the bed linens had made me rethink my usual practice and I decided that a tee shirt and boxers would be prudent. Looking back now, I recall that precaution as quaint and naive. As I retrieved the pertinent items from my bag, I came upon the substantial package of food items that I’d hoarded. It dawned on me that I hadn’t eaten anything, not a single bite, in well better than twenty-four hours. No wonder I was feeling a bit lightheaded and sluggish. At least this time, I couldn’t blame it entirely on excessive alcohol consumption. I found some biscuits and a small wedge of Cheddar that I’d swiped from the last dinner served in the Great Hall prior to the commencement of hostilities on the Hogwarts grounds. That, along with a crisp green apple, was my dinner. I hadn’t really thought about bringing any beverages with me other than of the intoxicating sort, and the rather tasteless biscuits had left my throat parched. My choices to quench my thirst were water from the tap – not bloody likely – or the Firewhisky in the flask that had been calling to me for an hour or two. In the end, I guess there had been no contest. After taking less than a minute to strip out of my clothes and donning the sleepwear to which I’d conceded, I stretched out on the bed and drank. While I don’t remember much else about that night, I know that I wept over any number of the losses that I’d suffered, wallowing in my misery until I succumbed to either exhaustion or inebriation. I know that when I woke up the next morning, my eyes were red and swollen, my mouth was dry as cotton wool, my head was pounding, and my flask of Firewhisky was bone dry.


	4. Chapter 3

Although I know I slept that first night in Liverpool, it wasn’t particularly healing or restful, if my physical condition and sour mood the next morning were any indication. Maybe I’d lost consciousness, although the distinction was hardly pertinent. My head was pounding, and as soon as I relieved my full bladder, I dug into my stock of potions for a hangover remedy. I had brewed what I thought was a sufficient supply about a month earlier, but it seemed that I’d been availing myself of the concoction with greater regularity than I thought; I had only four of fifteen vials left. That would be a priority once I made myself settled enough to replenish my stores.

Fortunately, while not instantaneous, the relief had been swift, and I stripped off my improvised sleepwear to shower. Although I had little energy or motivation, it had been almost two full days since I’d been able to bathe, and one of those bad been spent, quite literally, on the edges of a pitched battle. While I wasn’t yet to the point of offending myself, it was entirely possible that I’d become “nose-blind” – so accustomed to my own stink that I didn’t recognize it. I couldn’t have vouched for my effect on others. The water sputtered from the showerhead as I turned on the tap, and a temperature check with my hand a few moments later revealed the water to be, thankfully, warmer than I’d expected. I propped my bottle of shampoo on the rust-mottled soap shelf and used my favorite bergamot soap, lathering generously over my body.

While the blind oblivion of alcohol intoxication wasn’t immediately available to me in the shower, I wasn’t fussy or hesitant about finding my highs wherever I could get them. If not chemically induced, a physical rush was a perfectly good alternative. Since I was already wet and slippery, there was no impediment – or compunction – to getting myself off. I liked to start slow, relishing the sensation of the build-up, testing my stamina to see how long I could extend my pleasure before finally letting go. The release was always more explosive, I thought, when the trek to the end was more deliberate. Although at that point I didn’t have an immense amount of experience bedding witches, I certainly wasn’t a virgin. The few ladies I’d been with seemed to appreciate the self-control I’d developed through my solo efforts.

Like most post-adolescent blokes, I knew every ridge and vein of my cock exceedingly well. I knew that a firm squeeze with my thumb and index finger around the base would slow me down and a rub against that spot just beneath my head would make my knees weak. When I finally wanted to come, a fast, firm stroke enclosing the tip would send me over. Fondling my bollocks at the same time would make me see stars. If a partner were the one handling me, it was all the better. That’s the kind of oblivion I sought; my only frustration was that the bliss didn’t last for very long. I found solutions to that along the way, but that story’s down the road a bit.

I had braced my hands against the wall while regaining my senses, allowing the water to sluice over me until my vision cleared and I was again breathing normally. Somewhere along the way, the hot water had run out and I was standing in a spray of icicles. I shivered and turned off the tap, then reached out through the curtain to grab a towel. They were so small and threadbare that I needed two in order to get dry. I hung them over the rod for use on the following morning, as I was relatively certain there would not be daily linen service. I suppose I could have used a spell in a pinch, but I was trying to be careful about how much magic I used. Having not spent a lot of time around Muggles, I had no idea whether they’d feel something different in the air, even if they hadn’t directly witnessed my magical activity. That was not the kind of attention I cared to attract. Blending into the woodwork was closer to my intention.

On the previous evening, I hadn’t had the energy to fully unpack and inventory what I’d managed to stow in my duffle, so after pulling on a clean pair of boxers, I sat cross-legged on the bed and emptied the bag, mentally cataloging as I went along. When I reached the bottom, I concluded that I’d done a reasonably decent job of stocking up for most of my needs over the next several weeks. My privileged upbringing, though, revealed a few things that I hadn’t fully considered, and as I thought more deeply about the course to which I’d committed myself, some gaping holes in the fabric of my plan were exposed.

I had enough clothing to last a little over two weeks without repeating a garment, other than the jeans which I’d learned could be worn multiple times without laundering. Without house-elves to clean my clothes, I hadn’t really considered the methodology to take care of my washing. I knew enough to realize that constant Scourgifying damaged and degraded fabrics; after five or six applications of that spell, my clothing would start to fall apart. I wasn’t anxious to spend more than I needed to on constantly replacing my wardrobe, such as it was. I was sure that I’d need the money for other priorities. I supposed that I could make use of duplication spells, but I also didn’t want to cart around more than I absolutely must. I concluded that the most likely solution was to discover what Muggles did to clean their soiled clothing. I was intelligent and observant; I was sure I could figure it out.

The next issue was food. Most of what I had taken from Hogwarts was what we’d eat for snacks, things like savory and sweet biscuits, whole fruit, and the like. Our late Headmaster had been a lover of all things Muggle – he was particularly notorious for his passion for Muggle sweets – and had introduced peanut butter into the menu long years before our class of students arrived at Hogwarts. As such, it had become something of a staple in the wizarding world. I’d managed to grab a half dozen jars in preparation for my departure. I must confess, the stuff was addictive, particularly the crunchy variety. Several pots of various fruit preserves paired with that and the biscuits made rather tasty combinations. They weren’t, however, sufficient for real sustenance.

I’d also managed to swipe some cheese and cold meats, but stasis and cooling charms wouldn’t keep them from spoiling forever. They’d be safe to eat for a couple of weeks, at best, if the supply didn’t run out before then. Muffins, scones, and other breads would be safe for a little longer, but the quantity I’d gathered was not unlimited. I’d learned through trial and error that one could not shrink some of those pastries and expect them to be edible when the attempted was made to return them to their original state. Thus, I’d not taken more than a dozen items, carefully wrapped and warded against crushing.

As I’d realized the previous night, the only beverages that I’d thought to take with me were of the intoxicating variety, and although I’d emptied my flask, I had a least five unbreakable bottles of various spirits stuffed between my other belongings. While my mood would be well-served by the alcohol, I figured that it probably wasn’t the best choice for breakfast. On that day, anyway.

Vegetables were also conspicuously absent. It wasn’t topmost of my concerns, but I’d grown up in a household in which full formal meals were served every day. It was something else I’d need to consider, but I didn’t think it was a life-altering issue at the moment.

Gamp’s Law aside, the major complication I faced here was that, try as I might, my new wand was not cooperating in duplicating food, which should have made my situation less expensive, if not providing greater choices. The texture, size, taste, and aromas were all out of whack and fundamentally inedible, no matter what I attempted to replicate.

Since I’d rented a room without kitchen facilities, there wasn’t a lot of cooking that I could do, even if I knew how. My culinary skills were limited to assembling sandwiches and reheating cooked items that had been chilled. I could boil water for tea, if I had thought to bring any tea with me. Finding a market to purchase a tin or two was added to my list of things I needed to do. My collapsible cauldron could potentially be used for heating something in addition to its main function in brewing potions; it would probably be safe to cook in a vessel that had contained ingredients that were used in consumable brews, as the vast majority were. It would just need to be thoroughly cleaned between concoctions, something that had been drilled into habit from the very first day of Elementary Potions Practices in first year.

There were clearly a number of problems that needed solutions, but my brain was still too distracted and preoccupied to come to any definitive conclusions. My thoughts kept drifting back to the battle that had still been raging when I’d made my escape. I wondered over the fates of my classmates and, as angry as I was at them, my parents. Whether Potter and his crew or the Dark Lord had prevailed was also a burning question. I had no idea how or when I’d get any answers, and I certainly wasn’t willing to risk exposure by venturing into a wizarding community. I resolved to put the question out of my mind and live whatever life I could craft for myself. For now, there was no debate about going back to the wizarding world. I’d cast my fortune in another direction, for better or worse.

My subconscious had different ideas, though, and when boredom and exhaustion combined to send me into a fitful nap – at mid-morning – my dreams were haunted by the faces and events that I’d seen in my last hours in the castle. My dreams turned to nightmares where Potter, Weasley, and Granger had abandoned me to the fire rather than taking Goyle and me out with them. A particularly troubling version had Granger cackling over her shoulder from her perch on the broom as she watched me succumb. That one awakened me with my own screams. I was shaking like a leaf as I sat up in bed, still surrounded by the items I’d unpacked. To calm my nerves, I cracked open one of my bottles of Firewhisky, not bothering with the civility of a glass, and drank deeply. Having only eaten a scone all day, my buzz came quickly. I welcomed it heartily, along with the temporary amnesia that it afforded me.

I stumbled around the room for a bit, haphazardly putting away some of my belongings in the dresser and closet, and finally dressing in something more than pants at midafternoon. Since my stomach was grumbling, I decided that I should eat something, and I managed to pull together a sandwich of roast beef and some cheddar that I’d sliced off the wedge I’d stolen. Draco Malfoy, petty thief. I suppose that’s better than having murder on my conscience, although I do recall having rationalized that the tuition and board my parents had paid entitled me to some of the food that I’d failed to eat in my weeks of depression and paranoia. I had at least had the foresight to also “procure” a couple of plates and some basic utensils. Apparently, I’d had a couple of flashes of competence in my desperation.

I’d sobered up a bit at that point and was going stir-crazy, so I thought for a few minutes about what I would need to do in order to safely explore my temporary neighborhood. Paramount in my mind was renewing the Glamour charms that certainly would have worn off by now, and I used the bathroom mirror to ensure, as best I could, that I cast them in the same way I had on the previous evening. I also didn’t want to venture out into unfamiliar territory unarmed, but I’d not yet experimented with methods for disguising my new wand. I concluded that the best short-term solution was to place a Disillusionment charm on it. I’d still be able to feel the thing in my pocket, but no one would be able to see it. Until I had a better handle on its capabilities and responsiveness to me, I didn’t want to make any actual alterations such as shrinking or minimally transfiguring it. Since I had, literally, thousands of British pounds and close to their equivalent in Galleons among my belongings, I didn’t feel comfortable leaving my room unprotected, so I cast another Disillusionment charm over any items that could have seemed to have the slightest value and set a strong locking spell along with a powerful deterrent hex or two on the room’s only door. Satisfied that my stash was as safe as it could be under the circumstances, I set out in the early evening light to explore, carrying only about £50 with me, should I need to make a purchase or decide to have dinner at a local establishment.

The first thing I noted as I entered the lobby from the stairwell was that the same portly attendant sat behind the reception desk. He looked up as he heard my footsteps and grunted. This seemed to be his favored method of communication. Since he failed to make eye contact, I chose not to interpret his vocalization as a direct greeting and simply walked past. My mother would have thought me unspeakably rude to not offer some acknowledgement, even to such a low-status proprietor, but since she wasn’t here to rebuke me – and at the time I still had no idea whether she’d even survived the final battle – I ignored my breach of etiquette in favor of a hasty departure from the premises.

When I was finally outside, I found that the evening air was warmer than I’d expected, and I unzipped the lightweight fleece jacket I’d worn. There weren’t very many pedestrians on the street, but I noted a steady stream of people in and out of various businesses along the three or four blocks that I’d walked. Periodically, enticing aromas would waft from an open door, or raucous laughter would emanate as patrons interacted with their friends. There was something inviting about the sound until it struck me that it might be years before I’d again hear such a joyous noise from anyone I know, if ever, and that added to my already morose mood. Thinking that I could spare a few quid for a pint or two to drown my sorrows and possibly a hot meal – the first I’d had in three, maybe four days – I entered the next pub on my path.

I was very near the docks and the odor of the river permeated the air. It was highly questionable that I’d find anything more pleasant inside the pub, the name of which I’d failed to note. My theory was proved accurate as I crossed the threshold and was assailed by a cloud of rancid tobacco smoke and the unmistakable scent of deep-fried anything. I coughed once in reflex, but continued farther into the moderately crowded eatery, trying not to breathe too deeply. A quick glance confirmed that most of the small two- or four-person tables were occupied, but there were a couple of open seats at the bar. I took the one closest to the exit and asked the barkeep for a pint of whatever stout he had on tap when he approached me. As he delivered my brew, he asked if I wanted a menu. I nodded in response and he reached under the bar to retrieve a single sheet of paper, printed on both sides with their offerings.

“We’ve also got lamb cottage pie as a special for tonight, mate,” he suggested.

Since it’s really difficult to fuck up a cottage pie, I figured that wouldn’t be the worst choice I could make. “That’ll do,” I answered him, pushing the sheet of paper back toward him, having never actually read it.

He nodded and turned to yell into the kitchen through the swinging door at the far end of the room. “Another special, Marcus,” he instructed, then turned back to the conversation he’d been having with other patrons, whom I presumed to be regulars from the area. It was fine by me; I wasn’t eager to engage in small talk, at least until my brain was significantly fuzzier. By the time my order was delivered, I’d polished off my stout and silently asked for another by raising the glass to catch the barkeep’s attention. He set a new glass before me, grabbing the empty one and dropping it into a bin for washing. He eyed me with as much curiosity as suspicion and asked, “You new around here?”

Great, I thought, just what I need. I took a cue from my rooming house attendant and grunted a reply that could have been interpreted as anything. Unfortunately, that was not enough to deter him.

“From one of the merchant ships?” he conjectured.

I smirked. A scrawny guy like me working on a ship? Yeah, real likely. I shrugged, allowing him to reach whatever conclusion he wished.

He seemed to find that amusing and tried again. “Quiet one, aren’t you? Well, I’ll leave you to your supper. Let me know if you need anything.” He turned away then, with a shrug of his own, and I went back to my cottage pie. It was either the most incredible thing I’d ever eaten or I was the hungriest I’d ever been. It didn’t take me long to polish off the entire plate, mopping up the last of the gravy with a piece of crusty bread that had been served alongside. By that time, I’d finished my second stout and signaled my desire for another. It was my goal that the pleasant buzz turn into another round of oblivion. The barkeep raised an eyebrow at the pace of my consumption, but complied without comment.

When I was about half-way through stout number three, a woman, probably in her mid to late twenties with shoulder-length dark brown hair and very nice tits, but not much else to attract my attention, slid onto the empty stool beside me. I deliberately ignored her until she leaned over and whispered into my ear. “You’re not one of the regulars, that’s for sure.”

I glanced at her, backing away slightly. I tried the grunt technique on her, too. It seemed to encourage her. “Ooh, I like the silent type,” she professed. “Looking for some company tonight, luv?” she asked, leaning in even closer and running her sandal-clad foot against my shin.

Ah. I got the picture. Having finally drained stout number three, my level of intoxication was now high enough that she didn’t look as horrifying as she had even five minutes earlier. I mumbled back, “What did you have in mind?”

“A little private party, luv. Just you and me. How old are you, anyway?” she belatedly inquired, apparently developing a level of concern about the age-related legality of approaching me. I thought it an odd question since the barkeep had served me without hesitation.

“Old enough.”

She smiled predatorily. “How about you settle up with Henry and we’ll go somewhere a little quieter?”

“How much?” I asked, leaving the interpretation of my question up to her.

She patted my cheek and said, “On the house, honey. You’re a right pretty one.”

I was naïve enough to believe her. I paid Henry - apparently that was the bartender’s name – and followed the curvy brunette out of the pub. She took my hand and led me to a ramshackle motel – one I’d missed in my earlier search for a place to stay but would likely have passed up for its seedy condition – and to her room on the third floor. As she unlocked and opened the door, she turned and asked, “What should I call you, luv?”

I guessed that I now needed to establish my new identity, something that I could remember, even while inebriated, but that wouldn’t sound familiar to anyone who might be acquainted with the wizarding world. “Drew,” I decided. I’d come up with a new last name some other time.

“Well, Drew, let’s get this party started,” she suggested, opening her purse and pulling out a small clear packet of white powder. “More than enough for both of us.” She emptied the substance onto a small mirror, using a razor blade to create narrow, straight lines. She pinched off one nostril and sniffed one line of the powder into the other, her eyes going wide and bright within seconds. “Your turn, Drew.”

I was a little hesitant to consume something – clearly a Muggle drug of some sort – about which I knew nothing, but my reluctance was overcome by the combination of my alcohol intake and her fondling my cock through my trousers. I was young, and I was ready in seconds. Mimicking the action she’d demonstrated, I ingested one of the lines. Faster than I thought possible, I felt a euphoria that I’d never before experienced. Combined with the alcohol I’d already consumed, I was on another plane of existence. Before I knew it, she – I would learn later that she called herself “Candy” – was unzipping my fly and wrapping her lips around my cock, sucking me off like the pro that she was. She wrapped her hands around my hips, encouraging me to thrust into her mouth and taking me deep. Most birds I’d been with hadn’t really liked that, so I was eager to comply. Gods, it was… incredible, and over in minutes. The high when I blew my load down her throat was simply indescribable. Watching her lick my seed off her lips had my dick twitching again. Merlin, I wanted that feeling again. Every problem or worry that I’d ever had simply disappeared.

It seemed, though, that she wasn’t done with me, and I’d be getting my wish. She unbuckled my belt and tugged off my trousers, taking down the boxers at the same time. I cooperated by stripping off my jacket and shirt while she removed her dress, under which she wore nothing. How convenient. She steered me toward the bed and pushed on my shoulder just enough so that I got the message that she wanted me on my back. She crawled up over me, using her hand to be sure I was fully erect (not much of a problem for an almost-eighteen-year-old, even so quickly after an explosive release), and handed me a small foil packet labeled with the word “condom.” I’d never used one before, as we use spells and potions in the wizarding world to prevent disease and pregnancy, but I wasn’t so naïve that I hadn’t heard of them. Knowing how to use one effectively, however, was another story. I smirked at her and handed it back. “You do it for me,” I said.

She smiled lopsidedly and asked, “Not your first time, is it?”

I snorted in reply, making enough bleary eye contact that she could tell I was being honest. “Not even close. I just like it better this way,” I excused. Okay, so that part was significantly less truthful.

She shrugged and said, “Whatever floats your boat.” She ripped open the packet and removed the round item inside, positioning it over my cock and unrolling it over my length. Her hand caressing my organ made my hips buck, and she finally crawled up over my hips and sank down on me, taking in every inch. I’m not ridiculously long, but I’m thick, and she seemed to like that. With every rock of her hips, I met her with a sharp upward thrust. Her eyes went wide as I kept pace. I think she realized that I wasn’t lying when I’d indicated that I wasn’t a virgin. My previous orgasm also meant that I’d have a bit more stamina for this round, and after several minutes with her on top, I rolled us over and took control, fucking her hard and heavy. I shifted her legs so that her calves were resting on my shoulders, and I could feel her trembling. She came a few moments later with a shout – I know that it was real because I could feel her channel rippling along my shaft. I moved my knees closer together and pounded her fiercely, five or six more times, and finally came with a roar of my own. I pulled back, instinct telling me to hold the condom around my base as I withdrew from her.

She chuckled. “You’re pretty talented with that cock for such a young one,” she complimented.

“Naturally gifted and sufficient practice,” I returned arrogantly, still high enough that I forgot to be silent. I felt the usual post-orgasm drowsiness overtake me and I was fairly certain that I wouldn’t be welcome to actually fall asleep in her bed, so I forced myself to sit up and reached for my boxers.

“Where you going so fast, honey?” she asked, sounding amused. She tilted her head toward the white powder on the mirror. “Another round of blow and another fuck will only cost you thirty quid. You aren’t ready to go home just yet, are you?” There was something slightly less friendly in this invitation than in her first.

And it was now clear that if I did go without the second paid round, there’d likely be consequences that I wouldn’t care to face. My supper had cost about ten, so I did have enough cash on me. And gods, the high was so fucking amazing. I hadn’t ever felt so good. I told myself that it was just what I needed, and that it was only thirty quid, an amount that was entirely insignificant in the grand scheme of things, and thoroughly worth it for the mental and physical escape that it would bring me. I reached for my trousers and handed over the cash from my pocket.

After round two, preceded by another line of what she’d called “blow”, during which she’d sucked me off again and asked me to tease her arse with my thumb while I took her from behind, I was on sensory overload. I’d come four times in the space of two hours, give or take, and I knew I had to leave, as I had no more money to pay her. In a daze, I dressed slowly and - not really sure of the post-coital protocol when one fucks a paid whore – thanked her for a good time.

“You’ve got a delicious cock, sweet thing. I’d be happy to fuck you any time. Same rate, same conditions,” she offered. She’d either forgotten my “name” or chose not to use it. Probably didn’t believe it was real, anyway. “For a few more quid, well, we can negotiate.” She laughed, but there was something not terribly funny about her tone.

I stumbled my way back to my rooming house, finally finding it after two or three wrong turns, and up the stairs, not even taking note of whether the fat man was at the front desk. I reeked of sex, still coated in my own bodily fluids and hers, and I released the wards I’d set on my door, tripping over the doormat as I entered the room. I righted myself with an assist from the edge of the bed and sat heavily, peeling off my clothing and heading for the bathroom. My head was just barely clear enough to know that I needed to shower, and I managed to turn on the taps without causing any damage to myself or the facilities. I was not yet sober enough, though, to resist finding another high and I brought myself off in the shower yet again. The desperate urge to come seemed constant and overwhelming. There was a part of my brain that seemed to wonder whether it was the drug I’d taken that had precipitated the need. To a very large degree, I just didn’t care. I absently watched my semen wash down the drain along with the residue of soap and shampoo, and I wondered if, or when, I’d fuck her – or anyone - again.

I turned off the tap, dried as best I could, and crawled into bed with my skin and hair still slightly damp, and forgetting the precaution of donning sleepwear that had seemed to important a mere twenty-four hours earlier. Before the high completely deserted me, I furiously wanked off one more time, finally passing out seconds after the semen had started to cool on my chest. That was the day it all began to go to hell.


	5. Chapter 4

For the next several days, I avoided going back to the pub where I’d met Candy. I knew in my gut that it wouldn’t be a good idea for me to get dragged into an association with someone like her. Those were instincts to which I should have paid greater heed. Loneliness and boredom were a dangerous combination, though, and my hours were filled with painful wallowing. I had managed to stay sober long enough on the next day to find a market where I bought two tins of tea, three jugs of water, and a bottle of dishwashing soap, among other basic necessities. I’d discovered that the bog roll in the loo was almost empty and it was up to me to resupply. How mundane, I know, but it just illustrated further how all the things I hadn’t considered – and had taken for granted - continued to mount. To make things slightly easier on myself, I extended my stay at the rooming house for the full month, paying the grunting desk attendant in small denominations to avert any suspicions. It was one tiny thing that would no longer niggle at me, at least for a short while.

Chief among my anxieties was the emotional toll of the isolation I’d forced upon myself. The great number of unknowns about what I’d left behind weighed heavily on my psyche, and I found that things that I’d told myself I didn’t care about were haunting my waking thoughts as much as they did my fitful sleep. I had no one to talk to – my own fault, of course – and keeping it all in was driving me spare. My only sources of relief came in blissful inebriation or the momentary mental weightlessness from my self-induced orgasms. My todger was raw.

I replayed the events in the Room of Requirement over and over again, obsessing and second-guessing whether there was anything I could have done to prevent Vincent from casting the spell that killed him, and very nearly five others, or to change the outcome so that he’d made it out with the rest of us. There were moments when I almost wished that he and I could have traded places. Almost. Some moments more than others. Still not knowing the fate of any of those people was gnawing at me, even the Gryffindors about whom I normally wouldn’t think once, never mind twice. I guess that their fates were so closely intertwined with the outcome of the battle that it was only natural for me to wonder. And after how cruel I’d been to her all those years, I especially didn’t understand why Granger had insisted on not leaving Goyle and me to our fiery fates. I should have been thankful for her innate goodness, I suppose, but the quality of my life in those early weeks and months made me not really care whether I’d burned to a crisp.

It didn’t take me more than a week and a half to drain the five bottles of alcohol that I’d procured prior to my departure. If one were counting, I was probably averaging the equivalent of eight or nine shots a day, more than enough to ensure that I was well pickled. I know that my mental functioning had suffered, and I’d go a good couple of days without ever leaving the room, getting out of bed only to relieve myself or to nibble on whatever food I had left. My personal hygiene, normally so meticulous, was sorely lacking, and I rarely dressed beyond boxers. (At least I was delaying my need to deal with dirty laundry.) That I didn’t even care that that was true was a sure sign of extreme distress.

The need for a new supply of spirits was making me antsy, as I was down to my last half-bottle. Since the wand hadn’t cooperated in duplicating the food I’d nicked, I made the logical leap that it wouldn’t be any more effective in replenishing the alcohol. My booze of choice was usually Firewhisky, but I didn’t think it prudent to return to any wizarding enclave so soon after my disappearance. I figured that, if my parents had survived and there was no sign of my corpse anywhere in the Hogwarts’ vicinity, they’d be looking for me in other magical communities, and the likelihood that my image would be plastered all over every lamppost and window was pretty high. If they hadn’t, or had been incarcerated or otherwise incapacitated, well, somebody else would probably have been looking for my hide for the purposes of skinning it.

I know that my father periodically stocked other spirits in his bar, some of which had been gifts from his little-known Muggle business associates, and I’d sampled one or two on a few occasions, usually when he was monopolizing the only Firewhisky bottle left in the place. I’d reached the point that it wasn’t so much the taste that I cared about, anyway. The oblivion was what I was after. As long as I could manage to swallow it, the flavor of the alcohol was fundamentally immaterial.

I suppose that I had enough presence of mind to recognize that it would be less difficult to buy more alcohol if I appeared to be more presentable. I was still a couple of weeks away from being a legal adult in the Muggle world, but that was no obstacle. I could either fake an identification card – incredibly simple when one has a wand and an example, which I’d been incredibly fortunate to find on the floor in the stairwell – or use a suggestion spell to convince a wary clerk that I was eligible to make my purchase. Not quite as powerful as an Imperio (and with the added benefit of not being an Unforgivable), the spell I had in mind would work in a pinch. I’d discovered over the last several days of periodic experimentation that, other than the food problem, the wand I’d taken seemed to like me well enough. It liked “playful” spells, anything related to transfiguration, and charms connected to visual imagery. I was fairly confident that this was the kind of spell to which my wand would not object.

I’d finally reached the point where I was also nearly out of food. All of the cold meats I’d snitched were gone, as was the fruit. A small handful of savory biscuits, a quarter of a jar of peanut butter, and a half-pot of apricot preserves was the sum total of my ersatz pantry. I’d made several more attempts to duplicate my stash, going so far as to retain - under the most powerful preservation spells I could muster - one little bite of everything I had in my makeshift cupboard, but there was no success to be found. I had more than enough money to ensure that I was eating reasonably regular meals, so it was clearly something in my thinking – or lack thereof – that was stopping me from getting decent nourishment.

Gathering up the miniscule amount of motivation that still coursed through my veins, I dragged my ripe and stinky self into the bathroom and showered. Even then, my irrational desire for emotional escape intruded on rational behavior and I took advantage of the comfort offered by soap and water to get myself off again. I was long past the adolescent stage of self-gratification for curiosity’s sake; this was a product of my desperation to feel anything that wasn’t pure pain. Regret, fear, isolation – it all disappeared for the minutes that I worked myself up and gave myself over to the almighty orgasm. I’ve no doubt that part of my subconscious recognized how fucked up it was, but it apparently didn’t matter to the other ninety-eight percent.

I was feeling pretty relaxed as I sauntered through the lobby and out onto the street, having only just remembered to put my Glamour charms in place before leaving my room. There were plenty of off licence establishments within walking distance, but the most logical choice was the local market where I could also restock my food supply. With about £100, my Disillusioned wand, and my exceptionally accurate fake identification - proclaiming my name to be Drew Blackman and my age to be twenty - in my pocket, I set off on my mission.

So that I didn’t stand out like a sore thumb, I nonchalantly watched other patrons for a few moments before taking one of the wheeled baskets from the market’s entrance, pretending to study the flyer that proclaimed goods offered at sale prices for the week. As I walked along the aisles with my metal shopping cart, I was enthralled by the vast selection of food available in this Muggle market. In the wizarding world, all of the food procurement was handled by order and delivery from specialty purveyors, at least in my home. I suppose it’s possible that might have been slightly out of the norm for less affluent families, but I didn’t know anything different. This market seemed to have some of everything one could hope to purchase, and it was more than a bit overwhelming. I also had to keep in mind that I had no dedicated cooking implements in my rented room, so as much as I was craving a perfect French omelet (if I’d known how to prepare one), the cauldron I’d brought with me could really only be used for heating things like tinned soup. Even toast would be a challenge, but I didn’t want to spend any more than was absolutely necessary, so “upgrading” to a room with a kitchenette felt like an extravagance I couldn’t afford and a luxury I wasn’t equipped to use. All in all, it wasn’t going to happen.

So in the end, I bought more cold meats, sliced cheeses, a loaf of bread, and a jar of mustard. I threw in a bag of green apples, too. While I was starting to get sick of peanut butter, it was inexpensive and supposedly packed with protein, so I grabbed another two jars of that, along with another pot of raspberry preserves. Breakfast for the next several days consisted of muffins, scones, and cold cereals with milk, which I’d placed under a chilling charm. I seemed to remember having cold cereal when I was a small child, although the memories are vague. I do know that my mother often told me that I was a very picky eater as a tot, going through phases where I’d consume only one or two items to the exclusion of all else. I also added a few tins of prepared soup and something that resembled pasta. (Merlin, that stuff was awful and I never bought it again, even at my most desperate.) Since I’d brewed a rather large batch of hangover potion on one of my more lucid afternoons, I figured that the cauldron might as well be put to use for something productive.

Also added to my cart were two bottles of whisky. While the name “Jack Daniels” meant nothing to me, there was a fairly large display of it, so I concluded that it was something that was well-known and thus, reasonably acceptable. I’d had Scotch a time or two and not found it objectionable, so I added a bottle of that, too. Finally, one bottle each of vodka and gin, also items that I’d sampled from my father’s bar without too much disgust, rounded out my supply.

It was a darned good thing that I’d brought a reasonably good chunk of money with me, as the cost for the alcohol alone was a little over £60, and I hadn’t bought anything close to the most expensive brands. Getting soused wasn’t cheap. The clerk inspected my identification in the most cursory fashion, and I paid my bill and was on my way.

When I returned to the rooming house, a different attendant, also male and elderly but nearly as emaciated as his co-worker was rotund, was staffing the desk. He was no more talkative than the other man, and didn’t even grunt at me as I passed through the lobby, laden down with my purchases. I was fine with that. Glancing right and left to ensure that no one else was in the hallway, I removed my wand from my pocket and released my security spells, noting gratefully that none of the wards or alarms had been tripped. I took another five minutes to stow and preserve, as much as was possible, my perishables, and cracked open the bottle of Scotch once I was finished.

Since I only had a small amount of Firewhisky left, I resolved to save it. For what, I hadn’t the vaguest idea, but it seemed the thing to do, because Merlin only knew when I’d have the opportunity to replenish. I poured a good two fingers of the Scotch into a tumbler that I’d found in one of the pockets of my duffle. I don’t even remember packing it, to be honest, but it had definitely been enhanced with a charm to prevent breakage, so I must have done it somewhere along the way. The burn of Scotch is dramatically different from Firewhisky. For one, it’s not hot like the wizarding beverage literally is. For another, it’s quite a bit sweeter. In many ways, it’s easier to drink, and something told me that I’d need to pace myself or I’d be passed out before I could enjoy the buzz. I told myself that, if I limited my drink to just the one tumbler, I’d treat myself to a hot meal, since I was reasonably presentable and not stumbling-down drunk. I also made the promise that I’d not go to the pub where I’d met the brunette streetwalker.

I tore a few more pages out of one of my faux books and reversed the transfiguration spell that had hidden their true form, stuffing the bank notes into my pocket along with the identification card that I’d created. Because I’d been hiding out in my room for a number of days, I hadn’t spent much, I rationalized. Splurging on a hot supper was not going to break me. I refreshed my Glamours, just to be on the safe side, and renewed the wards and protection charms on the room as I left. I’d worn a pair of simple black trousers of wizarding tailoring, so they had the added advantage of having a long wand pocket sewn into the seam along my right thigh as an extension of the garment’s regular pocket, but completely invisible to the naked eye. I was still not comfortable with making any alterations to the wand, and even less comfortable to be without it. Fortunately, trousers were trousers, regardless of where they were tailored, and the styling would attract no undue attention. The short-sleeved black tee-shirt that I wore made them appear less dressy, and I debated for only a moment before casting a Glamour that altered my Dark Mark so that it appeared to be a full-color serpent. Only another Death Eater would take a second look, I thought. This was also another puzzle that I would somehow need to decipher. I knew that my father’s Dark Mark had faded after the Dark Lord’s first defeat, but I’d never thought to ask how long the process had taken. Had it been days, weeks, months, years? I truly had no idea. Thus, although mine seemed less… angry, it was still prominent on my arm, giving me no additional clues as to the freak’s fate, and thereby, the outcome of the battle.

I set out from the rooming house in the opposite direction from the way I’d traveled on my last excursion, and found that there was little difference in the kinds of establishments I encountered. One pub pretty much looked, smelled, and sounded like another, with only the number and identity of the patrons to differentiate them. I decided to count to one hundred as I walked, and the first pub I encountered once I’d met that milestone would be my choice for the evening.

That led me to a place that was infinitely more bar than dining establishment, but I’d committed, right?

Since it was slightly on the early side of the evening for patrons in it solely for the drink, the place wasn’t quite as crowded as I knew it would be in another hour. I found an unoccupied two-person table and took a seat. It wasn’t more than two minutes before a waitress approached.

“What’s your poison, lad?” she asked, leaning over just enough to be certain that I’d caught a very good look at her prominently displayed breasts, popping out from the white vee-necked top she wore. They were exceptionally large, to be sure, but I’ve never thought of myself as exclusively attracted to huge tits. And she was rather older than I’d want to deal with, probably mid-thirties, at least.

“Double whisky, neat,” I started, then added, “And a menu.”

She smirked at me and pointed over her shoulder. “Menu’s on the chalkboard.”

I nodded and tried to avoid the flush that I felt creeping up my neck. I’d immediately revealed myself as outsider.

“Nice art. You in on one of the ships?” she asked, nodding toward my left forearm.

“Thanks. No.” I know I sounded abrupt, but I really didn’t want to engage in small talk. I wanted my whisky and something to eat. I deliberately averted my gaze toward the chalkboard she’d indicated and quickly evaluated the limited menu, immediately narrowing my choices to either the fish and chips or the baked chicken. The ubiquitous cottage pie was the last real meal I’d eaten, and I wanted something else. “I’ll have the chicken.”

Apparently getting the message that I wasn’t the talkative sort, she rattled off the options – chicken soup or house salad, baked or mash, peas or broccoli – from which I had to choose and I answered her perfunctorily. With another smirk, she turned on her heel to place the order and get my drink from the bar.

The beverage was delivered promptly, and I resisted the temptation to slam the whole shot. It’s significantly more expensive to buy a drink in an on-site spot than to purchase your own bottle, so I was trying to be practical as well as avoiding the possibility of stumbling back to my room. I nursed the drink while I waited for my meal to be delivered, but my glass was nearly empty by the time the buxom waitress returned.

She set the plate on the table in front of me and asked, “Another double?”

I hesitated briefly. “Sure.” Gods, I was so weak. I drained the last drops from my glass and handed it to her.

When she delivered the next one, she gave me a tall glass of water, too. “Don’t know what you’re tryin’ to forget, luv, but do remember to pace yourself.” Rather than the temptress she’d attempted to be earlier, now she was maternal. It was fucking with my brain.

I ate slowly, relishing the hot meal even if the chicken was terribly dry, the mashed potatoes excessively salty and the broccoli ridiculously overcooked. At least the salad had been crisp, if boring and pedestrian. I’d never thought that I would say that I missed the meals at Hogwarts, but that was gourmet fare in comparison to this. As inadequate as it was on the culinary spectrum, it was the best meal I’d had in nearly a week, so for all its faults, I was planning to enjoy it as best I could. I even managed to stretch out my second drink to last ‘til nearly the last bite. When the waitress returned to clear away my plate, only the bones of the fowl remaining, she glanced at my empty glass.

“Anything else for you, handsome?”

I wanted another, but the disapproval in her tone made me hesitate. I still couldn’t tell you why. Then I got defiant. Who the fuck was she to imply what I should or shouldn’t do? She wasn’t my mother, who for all I knew, was dead and buried, and to whom I likely would not have listened anyway. She was here to serve whatever I requested. “One more, and my check,” I said, leaning back in my chair indolently and making myself comfortable.

She left with a shrug and was back with my drink before I could count to sixty.

The place wasn’t terribly crowded yet, but it was filling up, and it wasn’t long before a young woman approached my table and asked whether the other seat was “taken.” Not reading anything into her question, I said, “Help yourself,” thinking that she wanted the chair. Instead, she slid into it and made herself at home across the table from me. I was about to tell her to get lost when she said something that sounded very familiar.

“Aren’t you interested in a little company tonight, luv?”

What was it about me that seemed to attract prostitutes? Was there something about my manner or appearance that screamed “punter”? As much as I would have liked to get laid, I wasn’t interested in paying for it again. I looked her up and down (if I’m honest, she wasn’t half-bad-looking – much more attractive than Candy) and said, “Not in the market.”

She glared at me. The level of indignation in her expression made it pretty clear that I’d assumed incorrectly. Wasn’t the first time I’d made an arse of myself, and certainly wasn’t the last. She leaned forward and hissed out her words. “I’m not looking for money, you shit. I thought you weren’t especially ugly and I was looking for company.” The way she emphasized the word made it clear, though, that she was absolutely talking about sex.

“My mistake and my apologies,” I said, as contritely as I could muster. “You might want to reconsider your approach, though, luv, as it’s not uncommon for… ladies of the evening to use that phrase.”

She chewed at her bottom lip, debating over something. Most likely she was choosing between slapping my face and kneeing my bollocks. If there hadn’t been a table in the way, I’m rather certain which would have been her choice. I was expecting her to get up and leave any second, but she shocked the crap out of me when she said, “Then, let’s start this over. I’m Abby. Can I buy you a drink?”

I was so surprised that I let out a guffaw, something I never would have done if I’d been sober. “That’s a switch.” I had no choice but to conclude that she was itching for a fuck. Some girls are like that, or so I’ve been told. I figured it wouldn’t hurt to play along for a while. I could always back out somewhere along the way if she turned out to be too clingy or something. A visit to the loo was all I needed to make my escape via Apparition, and no one would be the wiser. It struck me that that was a strategy that I might want to keep in mind for any number of uncomfortable situations, assuming I wasn’t too inebriated to avoid Splinching myself. Finally, I answered, “Sure, and if you’re decent company, maybe I’ll buy the next round.”

It turned out that she wasn’t bad company and after three rounds of drinks, two of which were on me, her proximity to me had shifted from across the table to nearly in my lap. She was nibbling on my neck, and while most blokes are loathe to admit it, that’s always been a spot that gets my motor going. I paid the tab and said, “Do you have somewhere you’d like to go?” I almost didn’t recognize my own voice for its huskiness.

She took my hand and led the way out of the bar and down the street for two blocks, pausing now and then to feel me up or allow me to grope her. We were in public, but it was dark and neither of us was sober enough to care about any spectacle we might be creating. She took me to her flat, a small but relatively tidy place on the fourth floor of a building that was slightly less run-down than many of the others in the neighborhood.

As she crossed the threshold and tugged me in, she was already using her other hand to undo the buttons on her blouse. It seemed that there was no pretense about what we were here to do. I was fine with that. She dropped articles of clothing in her wake as I followed her to the bedroom. I’d found the mental clarity to remove my shirt and unbuckle my belt before she came toward me wearing only her bra and knickers. She was rather fit, and it definitely fueled my arousal when she decided to assist me in removing my trousers, reaching into my open fly to stroke my cock.

“You want some ecstasy?” she asked as she slowly pumped my shaft.

“Of course,” I answered, anticipating that she might suck me off. That was not what she was talking about, I was to discover in just another moment.

“Be right back,” she whispered, trailing her hand along my length before leaving the room for a moment. I shrugged, not quite comprehending why she’d left, but assuming that maybe she wanted a visit to the loo. I took the opportunity to take off my shoes, socks, and trousers, stretching out on the bed with a rather prominent tent in my boxers. When she returned a moment later, she had an open bottle of wine and something clutched in the palm of her hand. She opened it, revealing two small tablets, one yellow and one green. “They’re the same. Pick one.”

Not wanting to appear as clueless as I was, and in a very uncomfortable echo of what had happened with Candy and her “blow,” I deferred only momentarily, saying, “Ladies first.”

She smiled, popped the yellow pill in her mouth, and washed it down with a healthy swig from the wine bottle. She handed it to me, and I hesitated only a second more before taking the green pill and swallowing it with a generous mouthful of wine. While I would normally never had taken a drink from the same vessel as someone else, I figured we’d be swapping all kinds of fluids over the next hour or so. What difference would sharing a drink from the same wine bottle make?

She joined me then in stretching out on the bed, getting very enthusiastic about exploring my body. I returned the favor, unclasping her bra and tossing it away. “Shouldn’t be long now,” she said.

“Huh?” I asked, not understanding what she was talking about.

“The E. Should hit in about five more minutes. Do you have a condom on you?”

Oh yeah, those. “No, sorry, I didn’t grab one when I left,” I deflected.

“In the nightstand,” she said, reaching over me to pull open the drawer.

Glancing over, I saw a box of condoms, a small bottle of lube, and what appeared to be a pink, penis-shaped implement. This bird liked her sex. I turned to remove one of the foil packets from the box and handed it to her. “You put it on me,” I rasped.

She took the packet, but just placed it on the bed beside my hip. “I think I want to suck you first, and I hate the taste of that thing.”

No argument here. I smiled lopsidedly and lifted my hips so that she could continue to tug off my pants. She wasted no time, licking my cock like a lolly, then taking me deep in her throat. On every pass upwards, she applied strong suction and I wondered why girls in Liverpool seemed so much more likely to enjoy giving head than some of the girls I’d dated. I wasn’t complaining, by any stretch, merely curious. I noticed that she was wiggling out of her knickers and I got the message that she first wanted a little help, and then was inviting me to return the favor. We shifted and twisted until we were in position to pleasure each other simultaneously, and while I’d done this before, it was absolutely the first time while high and/or this drunk. Then the “E” kicked in.

It’s not necessary to detail every position and the number of times we fucked, but Merlin, I think we used up the whole box of condoms. I’d never come so hard and so much, or been so deliriously ecstatic over the experience. It was fucking perfect, what that little pill was called. I passed out at some point and actually slept the night in Abby’s bed, but she was gone when I woke up. She left a note that read, “Hey, Drew. Thanks for a great time. Coffee in the kitchen in the white carafe. It’d be awesome to hook up again. Call me sometime! Abby”

I found the bathroom, pissed like a racehorse, and nearly panicked when my own face looked back at me from the mirror. I could only hope that she’d either left before the Glamours wore off or that she hadn’t noticed the subtle differences in my appearance in the harsh light of day. I decided that there was nothing I could do about it in the moment, so I fished my boxers out from under the bed. I wanted a shower desperately, but I also didn’t want to stick around. As bad as it was after the Candy episode, I was positively sticky with gods knew what. The scent of sex was rank throughout the room, but I truly didn’t care. I’d had a night that didn’t include nightmares for the first time in as long as I could remember. If I wanted a decent night’s rest, all I needed to do was get seriously high and thoroughly laid. I did remember, just before leaving, to take the little note on which Abby had written her phone number. I finally had a use for the black push-button telephone on my nightstand, if I chose to repeat the experience with the woman who introduced me to E. It was the kind of night I was to relive more times than I could count.


	6. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco's downward spiral continues.

My first four weeks in Liverpool had come and gone, and because I really had no reason to be elsewhere and no pressing desire to leave, I extended my stay at the rooming house, that time for three months, payable on the first of each month. Nobody bothered me, and I suppose that I was not a terrible tenant, if paying my rent in full and on time was a measure. I think I was a relatively quiet drunk, and I never brought the birds I fucked back to my room. I’d visited far more than my share of small motel rooms and apartments in those weeks, though. At least the hookers I fucked once in a great while generally had a room for which they had already paid. They were usually a last resort, however, on the rare occasion that I couldn’t find a keen… amateur. Springing for a few drinks or even an evening’s supply of blow or E was somehow far easier to swallow than paying for the sex.

It seemed that the nightlife around Liverpool, even – or maybe especially - here near the docks, was remarkably active, and one could visit a new pub or bar every night for a number of weeks without repeating. I was making it my mission to do just that. It wasn’t that I was… enjoying myself. Quite the contrary, in fact. I was so fucking miserable that I couldn’t stand my own company, and the possibility that I’d find a willing partner who was as interested in getting high as getting laid was a powerful draw. I guess my Muggle Studies class in fourth year had been good for something because I’d actually managed to figure out how to use the telephone to call Abby once, even leaving a halting message on her answering machine, but I belatedly realized that I didn’t know the phone number that rang in my room. She probably thought that failing to leave my number meant that I wasn’t all that interested in hearing back from her. It’s not untrue that a convenient hook-up was what I was after. No matter, it was easier than I’d ever thought possible to find someone to serve as my sex toy for an evening. Turns out, I never did see her again. Losing her number in my pit of a room had been a significant contributing factor.

I also discovered very quickly that procuring Muggle stimulants was far easier than I’d thought it would be. While it wasn’t uncommon to find someone willing to share in exchange for something or other, every pub seemed to have someone in residence who could, for the appropriate price and with the tiniest bit of discretion, provide blow, E, weed (the other slang name for which made me laugh nervously, calling to mind the Chosen One whose ultimate fate I still did not know), crack, yellow jackets, or just about anything else one might want to find his way into oblivion. That I’d learned the language of it so easily was as much a shock to my self-perception as the fact that I was very regularly seeking those highs. I suppose that I shouldn’t have been surprised to find that the sex, drugs, and booze seemed to go hand in hand. I’d generally start with booze, but it was rarely enough. I wanted to disappear into the highs, and I didn’t much care how far gone I got, as long as I was, at some point, coherent enough to find my way back to the rooming house.

At first, it was once a week, usually on a Friday night, as best I could tell. Watching the calendar was not something I cared about much. Within a couple of weeks, I began to go out in search of my thrills on two consecutive nights, wanting the rush, and I suppose on some level, the human connection – however fleeting and meaningless it may have been – of touching and being touched by another person, regardless of the fact that there was not a shred of affection involved. It was fucking and getting off, nothing more, nothing less. And there was nothing that I wanted more than to get off, over and over and over again. There was also almost no excuse that I couldn’t conjure. I even used the “clueless guy at the laundry” ruse (the “ruse” part more truth than I actually cared to admit once I learned how simple the process was) to first get my washing handled and then a blow job in the rest room while my clothes dried. It had only cost me a couple of E pills and a joint. She wasn’t terribly bright, as I recall, but her tongue contained enough talent to make her memorable.

The booze that I would consume before going out for the evening was simply what my father would have called “social lubricant.” It gave me the additional bravado and pseudo courage that allowed me to approach women without care to whether they’d shoot me down when I – sometimes bluntly – asked them if they were up for some “private partying” – the terminology I’d adopted from my first encounter with Candy. Stunning, some days, that I could even remember her name, but I suppose that a young man’s first hooker makes an indelible impression. I hadn’t considered whether any of the women I spoke to would think that I held the same profession as did Candy, that is until in my exceptionally inebriated state, I approached a woman who must have been at least twice my age. It was either testament to her looks, my state of drunkenness, or sheer desperation that I paid her any attention, especially considering how I’d completely dismissed the busty waitress I’d encountered a few weeks earlier who was probably younger by a good five or six years. She was unflinchingly accurate in thinking that a young man barely out of his teens (and I wasn’t even that) was probably unlikely to be interested in her without an ulterior motive for his attention. Although I certainly hadn’t asked for it in any way, I didn’t disabuse her of her assumptions and I actually accepted the fifty quid she stuffed into my pocket after I fucked her on her sofa, in her bed, and under the shower. Despite the fact that she was significantly older, the bird was remarkably fit, especially to my E-enhanced perception. I did learn a thing or two from her, come to think of it. One of those lessons was that, under the right circumstances, I was apparently a whore.

I hadn’t really cared, because I’d had it off three times, got higher than a kite, and walked away without having spent money that was being pissed away at a rate that would have me on the street far sooner than my original three-year plan. And how immature and foolish was I to have ever thought that I could survive without finding ways to replenish my funds at some point? The one-way nature of my financial situation would require that I find a source of income, or at the very least, access to one of my Gringotts accounts, as depleted as they already were, relatively speaking. Gainful employment for someone who’s always drunk or high is not an easy thing to accomplish, even if I had any skills that could be marketable in the Muggle world, and I was unwilling, if not yet unable, to give up my drugging, boozing and screwing for something as mundane as a job. My plan, such as it was, was essentially rubbish. My share of the Malfoy fortune, or whatever was left of it, was being fucked, pissed, and snorted away, and I truly hadn’t a single clue what to do about it, much less the energy to muster an ounce of give-a-shit. That I hadn’t even considered just returning “home” was as much a testament to my state of my mind as my continuing – in fact, escalating – need to fuck anyone who was willing and consume nearly any drug offered to me. The only place I drew the line – Merlin help me if I’d not – was injecting anything into my veins. The convenient excuse of squeamishness around needles (not entirely untrue) served me well and probably kept me from a resting place six feet underground. 

One stormy night about eight weeks after my arrival, I had an experience that should have scared me completely sober, but it was testament to my stupidity and sense of invincibility (I’d survived a war, after all, so how could a little chemical mood alteration do me in?) that it had only slowed me down for a handful of days, if that. It was the kind of night that offered no other diversions than drinks, drugs, and getting laid to any number of young adults who had a lot of time and a little bit of money on their hands. Around half ten, I found myself in the sleaziest bar I’d yet visited, and the rest of the clientele were as on the pull for a fuck and a fix as I was. The hook-ups were coming fast and furious, and pair after pair found their ways to dark corners or, now and again, braved the raging tempest in search of more private accommodations. This place was so dodgy, though, that it wouldn’t have shocked me to see more than a little foreplay, if not outright fucking, in plain sight.

The gloominess of the weather was undoubtedly a contributor to my dour mood, and I found myself sucking down more alcohol than usual, my swigs synchronized perfectly with the crashes of thunder outside the windows, their opacity guaranteed by so much grime and tobacco smoke that I could barely see the vivid flashes of lightning. By the time midnight approached, I’d had five, possibly six whiskies. Even for an accomplished imbiber such as myself, that was a ridiculous amount of alcohol to consume in just over ninety minutes. Regardless, the result was that I was spectacularly soused, barely stable enough to leave my bar stool, and ready to say “yes” to whomever came along with any proposition that included more booze, drugs of nearly any sort, and sex that didn’t include bestiality or pedophilia.

I was misfortunate enough that my wish was granted not fifteen minutes later by a blonde of indeterminate age (due more to my incredible level of inebriation than her appearance) and equally suspect character, as if that would have been a deterrent in my state of mind. In retrospect, I probably counted that as advantageous. The details are somewhat unclear as to how we actually hooked up, but I do know that I found myself alone in a hovel of a hotel room with this woman a short time after we’d first made eye contact.

We shared more whisky and got progressively more incoherent. At some point, she offered me some ecstasy which I readily accepted. Now, I’ve since learned that there are times when E can interfere with the ability to achieve an erection, especially if one has been drinking heavily, but I didn’t know that at the time. Even though I couldn’t get it up at that moment didn’t mean that I wasn’t itching for a fuck. She claimed that she had a solution in the form of a little blue pill, which I think had a name starting with V. I remember both of us being naked on the bed, and her doing her best imitation of a vacuum with her mouth on my cock. When the drug started to hit my bloodstream, I was still in the midst of the E high, and my Johnson got harder than a rock. I remember her riding me – vigorously – then taking me in her mouth again, then back onto my lap, but other than my dick, my body didn’t want to cooperate with movement. My limbs felt like overcooked noodles and my heart began to race, faster than anything I’d ever experienced. It wasn’t the pleasant racing that one gets from impending orgasm, but rather the kind one feels when a heart attack is imminent. I couldn’t breathe, and my cock felt like it would explode, but not in a good way. She seemed oblivious to my distress, though, and just rode me harder, apparently trying to achieve her own release, or maybe just to get a reaction from me. I couldn’t tell you if she was successful in the first, but there was no doubt that the second was a complete failure. I’m certain that I lost consciousness, but for how long and in how much danger I’d been, I have no idea. All I know is that the bitch was gone when I finally came to, probably many hours later, based on the bright sunshine streaming through the torn curtain. My brush with a drug cocktail overdose hadn’t been fatal, obviously, but it should have – and did for only a couple of days – scared me shitless.

I apparently learned the opposite lesson somewhere along the way: I’d survived, I was young and strong, and a little experimentation wouldn’t kill me, as long as I didn’t use the little blue pill along with any of the multitude of stimulants I tried. The two or three days after that episode, however, were as sober as I’d been in months. If only it had lasted.

It was a potion, not booze, which pitched me back over the edge. I’d forgotten in my haze of drugs and alcohol how many nightmares I’d had when I was not self-medicated. The couple of days that I’d laid off the Muggle chemicals saw those horrid dreams returning to interrupt my sleep and threatening my sanity. If I wanted to banish them – and I most definitely did – I thought I had no choice but to take some Dreamless Sleep draught. The version I’d made, however, had a mood enhancer along with the sedative. I can’t even remember who taught me to make it that way, or if it was something that I concocted myself. I don’t know if I was technically addicted at that point to any of the drugs I was taking. I varied what I took often enough that I didn’t think I’d built a specific chemical dependency. If anything, I thought I was addicted to sex. Or more specifically, to orgasm. If I wasn’t fucking someone every day, I took my cock into my own hand morning, noon, and night. Gods, if it had been a couple of inches longer or I was more flexible, well, use your imagination. Yeah, anyway. The Dreamless Sleep potion, however, was highly addictive and I’d been cautioned more than once about taking too much of it. Not knowing whether the potion or the drugs were worse, I did what any sanity-impaired person would do and decided not to choose. I took both: the Muggle stimulants to get the euphoria I craved and the magical potions to bring myself down so that I could sleep.

It’s probably a distinction without a difference, but the question of addiction, for me, seemed to hinge on the chemical or the feeling it produced. In my desperate attempts to escape reality – to the point that four months after I’d left, I still had no idea what the outcome at Hogwarts had been – I was seeking anything that could numb me, make me feel levels of euphoria that I’d rarely encountered in my youth and teen years, or give me the illusion of a trouble-free life. Whether I’d fallen prey to chemical or psychological dependency was hardly material, I thought. The result was the same. I couldn’t stop, and sooner or later when the drugs, booze and fucking failed to produce the same highs, I’d go in search of methods to enhance those feelings. In rare moments of true lucidity, that did scare the shit out of me. Something drastic would need to happen to break the cycle, and I calculated that my death was among the very likely possibilities. The saddest part of the whole situation was that I wasn’t so sure that I cared.

I couldn’t face the question, never mind process the thought, that people I’d known all my life had actually died over the conflict between one man’s twisted vision of his own supremacy and the right of those with different origins to live and work in our world. There’d been a rumor floating around for months – one of the things that prompted me to begin questioning what the fuck was really going on – that the Dark Lord was not even a pureblood, but a Half-blood whose obsessed mother had tricked his father into some semblance of a relationship with love potions. The hypocrisy that implied was too much for my brain to sort out. I have no idea whether the story was entirely true or just a bit of propaganda disseminated by Dumbledore and the Ministry, but even the possibility that portions of it were accurate was stunning, putting everything my parents ever taught me about the elevated worth of certain magical bloodlines into question. I was not willing to die for such a cause, or such a wizard, and that others already had made my stomach turn. I could not even entertain the thought that the conflict was on-going. If I’d thought that to be true, I think I might have taken a deliberate overdose and ended my long-distance misery.

As angry as I’d been at my parents’ weakness and their failure to keep me out of the fray, there was a part of me that recognized how incredibly difficult it would have been to extract themselves from their former support of him once old snake-face had completed his resurgence. As more time passed, the anger merged with grief at the thought that, for one reason or another, I’d probably never see them again. I began to wonder if I’d ever see anyone from my former life again, and curiosity over their fates once again consumed me. Just as compelling was the question of whether anyone cared about what had happened to me. Were people looking for me for reasons other than wanting to lock me up or murder me? I thought that the likelihood was slim, with the possible exception of my parents, if they were even still alive.

It had become second nature for me to wear my Glamours by then, and the wand that had been periodically finicky began to respond slightly better. I barely had to wave it to get the alterations to my appearance in place, and they were blessedly long-lasting. The only time I wore my own visage was when I was locked alone in my room. Someone could have walked right past me on the street and never known who I was. I suppose that’s what I’d wanted from this self-imposed exile, but I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t aching to see a familiar face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No worries, luvs, Hermione will be appearing very soon!


	7. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two unexpected encounters shake Draco's self-perception and raise many questions. Warning: Slash

My fifth month in Liverpool was momentous for any number of reasons, but the most significant of them was a chance encounter that would ultimately change the course of my life. The timing of it probably should have been uncomfortable, if not humiliating, but I’d long since lost any sense of shame along with my sobriety and my relative sexual naiveté. Just weeks earlier, I’d been wishing for just such a happenstance. What the hell had I been thinking? In recalling it, I still felt the shudders along my spine, probably as pronounced as the ones at the moment I’d seen her. More on that later; the path to that part of my story is just as riveting, I think, not unlike watching a train wreck in slow motion.

Partly because I was too lazy to clean up (or pack up) my room and partly because it was the path of least resistance, I renewed my stay at the rooming house for another three months. The two elderly men – apparently brothers, I’d somehow learned, though I don’t remember how - who staffed the check-in desk and managed the building were only slightly more communicative than their typical grunts, adding a nod now and again for this comparatively long-term tenant. They didn’t bother me and I didn’t trouble them, except once to ask about the possibility of getting new towels for the bath. I’d learned quickly that laundering all of the linens was my own responsibility, but the greying bits of terry cloth were practically translucent in their shabbiness. I’d received a new(er) set along with one of those ubiquitous grunts, the meaning of which I chose not to bother to decipher. I further chose not to contemplate what happened to the set I gave back.

My formerly fastidious habits had fallen by the wayside, so I’m not exactly sure why the marginally better towels had been so important to me. I guess that there was something in the back of my brain telling me that it’d be easier to find a willing fuck partner if I didn’t reek. Stinking of someone else’s sex generally made it less likely that another bird would be interested in getting her scent on me. (I don’t need to tell you that my sarcasm has always been fundamental to my style of communication, do I?) So I showered after every fuck, although sometimes not until the next morning. I didn’t care if I stunk of sex; it made the final wank of the night slightly less solitary. And the shower at ten or eleven the next day was an excuse for one or two more. Since I usually tried not to drink or pop a pill before noon, I had to have my other favorite high to tide me over.

I guess it was a good thing that the Glamours were coming so easy, too, as one look in the mirror on a particularly harsh morning showed that what had been an asset of being not unpleasant to look at was somehow also being frittered away. My eyes were rimmed in red and grey, sunken and tired. My skin was sallow and slack. Even my hair had lost its luster, turning brittle and dry. The expensive grooming products that I’d brought with me were now depleted, and I was being frugal where I could. (It’s not that I didn’t have money left; I still had thousands of pounds and Galleons in my room. It’s just that I knew I didn’t have a plan for replenishment and that made me miserly in the extreme, except when it came to liquid and chemical intoxicants, on which I spent freely.) Generic market brands served for my toiletries now. I used that as an excuse for my deplorable condition, never allowing myself to consciously tag the blame on the excessive consumption of illicit substances to which it rightly belonged.

In the first couple of weeks of my exile, I’d actually put on a couple of pounds, probably a result of eating lots of carbohydrates and fats. (Yes, we did have some education on nutrition in the wizarding world. We may be backward in some things, but contrary to assumptions from in-coming Muggle-borns, “science” was not ignored, particularly when one’s health was involved. How ironic, I know.) Since then, though, I’d lost all of that weight and more, and my clothes were once again feeling decidedly roomy. Did I do anything about it? No, I most certainly did not. I shrugged, tightened my belt, refreshed my Glamours again, and poured another Scotch.

There was one hygienic issue, though, about which I seemed to have an obsessive focus. Although I must admit that the sensation was not quite as good as going bare-back, I never fucked anyone without a condom (I’d bought two large boxes at the Boots on the next block and carried at least three little foil packets with me as a matter of habit, replenishing my supply from the Muggle apothecary with eyebrow-raising frequency). I’d also taken to casting contraceptive and disease charms before leaving my room, every single time, whether my destination was the grocery mart or a pub. One never knew, after all, when an opportunity to get laid might arise. Since magical medical care was somewhat out of reach at the moment, I preferred not to deal with some kind of sexually transmitted ailment. Our sixth-year gender-segregated health and hygiene classes in Hogwarts had been particularly instructive – and shockingly graphic – on the ills and evils that one could encounter, a lesson that had made an everlasting impression on my young mind. I liked my todger and bollocks just as they were, thank you very much. Oral sex was a little different; I’d not yet encountered anyone who preferred to suck me off with a rubber in the way. Even the “flavored” ones were pretty nasty, and in any case, did nothing to compare to the feeling of tongue. Since the bulk of the risk was on the sucker, so to speak, I let them worry about their own health, although the charms I cast did ensure that my cock was as clean as it could be. If someone were particularly reluctant, I was willing to avoid releasing in her mouth. I had enough sexual self-discipline to be a gentleman even when I was a cad. (Still, I was happily surprised by the number of my partners who had no compunction about swallowing.) Considering the sheer number and variety of people I’d fucked, I was probably doing all of Liverpool a favor with my genital fastidiousness.

That two nights a week of carousing I mentioned? It wasn’t long before it became four, or even five. The other couple of nights, I remained in my room in a largely futile attempt to conserve a little money. Didn’t mean that I didn’t get high and drunk, and Merlin knows, had any fewer orgasms. It was all just on my own. Whenever I was the least bit bored or tired or depressed or lonely, which was always, my hand was on my cock. My general slothfulness and distaste for chores would probably have meant managing to launder my sheets once a month. Sleeping in my veritable buckets of dried semen, however, was less than pleasant. (Hence, one of the multitude of reasons I tugged on my cock in the shower so often.) Thus, I’d make a weekly trip to the Laundromat, usually turning it into an opportunity to hit on a bird and get laid or sucked off. It worked almost every single time.

One particularly dreary late October night, a series of events and decisions that were, at the time, rather jarring to my general health and self-perception, set me on a path that only Fate - or a particularly devious Slytherin – could have conjured. The night was falling earlier, with full darkness arriving no later than five o’clock, and with the stars came tacit permission to drink and drug to excess. Thus, I got a head-start on the general populace and was pretty blitzed by the time I wandered out onto the streets with my usual mission of finding a person in whom I could bury my cock. I found someone, alright.

By the time I made it out of my rooming house, I was far beyond tipsy and well into sloshed. I thought I’d developed a bit of a tolerance with the quantities that I’d been drinking, but I guess I’d surpassed my stability limit because I was less than steady on my feet as I traversed the neighborhood. In my quest to not repeat at a single pub, I bypassed several establishments that I’d already visited on my way into a side street that I’d not yet explored. I went to the end of the alley and found the last door on the block, taking little note of things like names and signs. The first thing I noticed was that it was slightly less smoky than some of the other places I’d entered and that was definitely a plus. It was also very, very dark. Candlelight flickered here and there, and I’m sure I saw what I’d learned were “glow sticks” wrapped around the wrists of people dancing to a sultry jazz piece. The quality of the music was such that I was fairly certain it was recorded rather than live. Either my vision was compromised or it was just that dark that I couldn’t actually see the people, only the glowing rings swaying in time.

I took the only vacant stool at the bar and waited for a moment to get the barkeep’s attention. I recall thinking it slightly odd that he was wearing very tight leather trousers. I also recall contemplating that one’s equipment would get awfully warm in such garb. I further noted that he was bare-chested under a red vee-necked waistcoat. While I’d been to bars where the waitresses were scantily clad, this was somewhat unusual, I thought. He looked me straight in the eye and asked, “What’s your pleasure, handsome?”

That had happened once or twice before, but usually with a female bartender. I gulped, smiled in a way that I hoped didn’t resemble too much of a grimace, and said, “Whisky. Double. Neat.”

I thought that my high was disappearing faster than I’d like, so I reached into the pocket of my trousers and retrieved a tablet. Since it was so dark, I wasn’t sure of its color, but felt fairly certain by the size and shape that it was E. With a hit of that and a double whisky, I’d be relaxed and unconcerned about the bartender speaking to me in endearments. The E hit my bloodstream quickly and the double shot arrived moments later. I downed it in one gulp and asked for another. The barkeep smirked and nodded, handing me a new glass with a very generous pour.

“First time?” he asked, but the smirk was gone.

Reading nothing into the question, I answered in the affirmative. It was, after all, my first visit to this establishment.

“You’ll do fine,” he drawled, giving me a leering once-over that should have made me more wary, but the high ensured that I didn’t give it a second thought. I finished off the second double whisky and sat, eyes closed, listening to the music while my high got even higher. My euphoria was interrupted by fingers trailing across my shoulders. I smiled. That was more like it. A fuck in the making.

I opened my eyes, trying to adjust to the darkness in the midst of my substance-induced elation and noted that the only people near me were men. I remember being amused by that. I extended my gaze further and realized that everyone in the bar was male. How interesting, I pondered. I shrugged mentally, if not physically. It appeared that I had wandered into a gay bar. Now, I’ve never been specifically attracted to another man. I do have eyes, though, and can recognize that people might find a particular bloke good-looking. I’ve been envious, once or twice, of another man’s better build or taller stature. I happen to like my own cock rather well, so I’ve never been jealous of another guy’s package, nor have I actively compared mine to another’s. In the locker room, though, it’s sometimes impossible to avoid seeing your teammates’ goods. I’d never before considered getting… physical with a member of my own gender. I knew a couple of gay blokes from school who weren’t especially concerned about remaining discreet or closeted, and there’d been rumors from time to time about Zabini, but I’d seen him heavily and happily engaged with too many birds to fully buy in to that idea. I suppose he could have been bisexual.

So, anyway, there I was, sitting in a gay bar, higher than a kite, hornier than a goat, and feeling some dude behind me getting familiar with the contours of my back and shoulders. I was so high that I simply didn’t give a fuck. I’d tried any number of interesting things with the birds I’d been screwing, so why not go with the flow? One warm, wet, willing hole is as good as another, I reasoned. Did that make me gay? Or bisexual? I wasn’t coherent enough to process the question, and was feeling just hard up enough to not care. It’d been two days since I’d dipped my dick into anything other than my fist, so I was aching for it. If this bloke was willing, I was too. To be sure that I didn’t lose my nerve, I surreptitiously popped another E and hoped that it wouldn’t put me over the edge into unconsciousness. We’re talking high upon high upon high. He could’ve asked to fuck me right there on top of the bar, and I probably wouldn’t have argued, although the idea of being the fucker rather than the fucked was far more to my liking.

I turned on the swiveling stool to face him, and before I could even speak, he’d stepped into the space between my legs, stuck his tongue down my throat, and started rubbing my awakening cock through my trousers. I guess the etiquette of a hook-up was slightly different, at least in this particular bar. I responded by tangling my tongue with his and thrusting my hips lightly into his hand. I’d given my implied consent and I was as hard as I’d ever been in seconds. If my head couldn’t wrap around the idea of gay or bisexual, apparently my body had no difficulty with the concept. Maybe I was… omnisexual. I instantly coined the term to allow for one who’d fuck absolutely anything in order to get off. Other than children and animals, which were entirely, permanently, unequivocally off limits, I had to acknowledge that I was heading along that path. I’d once heard of a Muggle movie where a bloke actually fucked a pie. Yeah, that could be me, if it was warm and wet. Since willingness didn’t apply to inanimate objects, there’d be no troubles.

Before I could really comprehend the entirety of what was happening, I’d thrown twenty quid across the bar to cover my tab and was being tugged out of the bar by this dude. He was easily as hard-up as I was, if the massive bulge that had poked my hip was any indication. It was actually slightly brighter on the street than it had been in the bar and I got a look at the guy who’d been fondling my dick. He was a little taller than me, probably late twenties or early thirties, straight dark hair, brown eyes, and built like a Beater – large and muscular. Altogether, he wasn’t a bad-looking bloke. I imagined that if I were gay, I’d have been attracted to him. Women would certainly find him appealing, I thought, but I had the distinct feeling that this one did not play for both teams.

He pulled me close once we were tucked into a slightly more private, darker space in the alley. “You’re a right smart-looking bloke, luv. I started eying you the minute you walked in. What are you up for?” he asked.

I looked at him and stammered, “I, uh, I’m not, uh, gay.”

He chuckled in response. “That’s okay. You want to get your dick wet, dontcha?”

It was less a question than a confirmation. I nodded through the lump in my throat.

“Well, I’d be more than happy to oblige. I think you must be incredibly delicious,” he said softly, leaning in and running his tongue along the side of my neck. “Yeah, yummier than a bloke has a right to be. There’s something positively electric about you.”

I wondered briefly if he felt my magic. Could he have been a wizard or a squib? He placed his hands on my shoulders and pushed me, far more gently than I’d anticipated, against a wall. “You just relax, sweet thing, and old Tommy will take real good care of you,” he rasped.

If my gut feelings were correct, I’d have to say that “Tommy” was really into me, at least on a physical attraction level. It only took him a moment to drop to his knees, and seconds later, he was unbuckling my belt, unbuttoning my trousers, and unzipping my fly. He was so… practiced at it that I couldn’t help but assume that this guy really loved to suck cock. He nuzzled against my boxers, and I heard him inhale deeply. That, I must admit, felt a little odd, but I suppose I’d done the same with birds. By this time, my second hit of E had started to kick into high gear, so to speak, and I’d have let him do anything he wanted, as long as I could come.

I think I was whimpering, because I remember him looking up at me and soothing me with what could only be described as cooing. “I’m gonna do you right, luv, don’t you worry.”

It was then that he stopped caressing me through my boxers and freed my stiff, aching cock to the night air. I couldn’t have told you if we were alone or had an audience of a hundred because I was so intently focused on my cock in another man’s hand, and his mouth coming closer with every millisecond. I have no idea whether it was a function of my extreme level of high or if it had something to do with a man really understanding what another man likes, but he gave the best head I’d ever had. Just the right level of suction, just the exact amount of pressure, just the perfect application of tongue, just the best amount of deep-throating, just the optimum tug on my bollocks, just the most mind-blowing push and pull of his hands on my hips. Everything was fucking perfect on a sexual technique scale. If I hadn’t been so ready to blow my load, I’d have let him suck me off all night. He seemed to know exactly when that moment was imminent, too, because he pulled back just long enough to ask, “Swallow or on my face?”

I was too far gone to speak, but I made my intention clear by angling his mouth back to my dick, placing my hand on the back of his head, and thrusting aggressively into his relaxed throat. I came so hard and so long that I wondered if I’d choked him. I was breathing hard and my heart was beating at twice its normal rate as I slumped more fully against the wall. I understood why he’d set us up there.

Now, I know that I’ve been selfish at many points in my life, but I always prided myself on being a reasonably considerate sex partner. Everybody should have a good time. I was out of my element in that situation, though. I’d never touched another man, and I’d certainly never given head. What would he want from me? He seemed to understand my hesitation and confusion, although I was a bit surprised to find that he’d taken his cock, hot, heavy, and hard, out of his trousers. He was slowly and purposefully stroking it as he watched me deliberate. He stepped closer then, his body nearly flush against mine.

“I know you’re new at this, luv. It’s easy to see. You don’t have to suck me if you don’t want to. We can just play a little,” he suggested. He leaned in to kiss me then, and it’s not the first time, by a very long shot, that I tasted my own cum, but there’s no doubt that it was a vastly different experience while having my tongue sucked by another man. There was nothing romantic about it; it was all aggression and purely sexual. Being rather naïve about male-on-male sexual practices, I really had no idea what he proposed, but I nodded my assent all the same. He smiled, but there wasn’t anything creepy about it. Quite the contrary. It was evident that he was truly enjoying our assignation, almost as though he were… mentoring me. Such an odd thought. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t thoroughly enjoyed it, too. So with his body pressing against mine, he reached for my hand and wrapped it around both of our cocks – mine was already getting hard again - so that the strokes he guided up and down rubbed our organs together. I quickly understood, even in the midst of my high, that he was demonstrating what he wanted me to do. He began a slow, easy roll of his hips, then, while I jerked us off, eventually wrapping both of my hands around our erections. Gods, I was so fucking high and so fucking aroused that I couldn’t see straight on seventeen different levels. It all just felt so fucking good, and I knew that it wouldn’t be long before I’d get lost in another head-fuck of an orgasm. I heard his breathing get more rapid about the same time mine did, and we came within seconds of each other, our semen mixing indistinguishably on my hands. He rested his head for the briefest of moments on my shoulder, then took my hands in his, licking them clean before leaning in to kiss me one more time.

Through my orgasmic haze, I thought I heard a gasp and movement, and I lifted my head to see if someone had been watching us. There, in the shadow from a dim streetlamp, I saw a woman. She seemed transfixed by the sight of us, two men, having a sexual encounter on a public street. We weren’t directly out in the open, but we weren’t exactly fully hidden either. She drunkenly stumbled back, putting her fully into the light, and then I was the one who released a gasp. I may have been higher than a kite, with my dick hanging out, and in the midst of an emerging existential crisis about my sexuality, but I was as sure as I could be in my condition that I knew Hermione Granger when I saw her. There were two thoughts that came to mind in that moment. First, I was more grateful than I could possibly say for Glamour charms, and second, what the fuck was she doing here? As “Tommy” and I came down from our immediate post-sex euphoria, I shook my head in denial, convincing myself that it couldn’t have been the Gryffindor princess drunker than a skunk in the same Liverpool alley where I’d just had sex – and two orgasms - with another man. Couldn’t be. No fucking way. The universe just couldn’t possibly be that fucked up. Could it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there she is, Miss Hermione. Why? How? What's next? Stay tuned to find out!


	8. Chapter 7

I didn't sleep for what must have been three straight days after my encounter with "Tommy" and my possible Granger sighting. I paced, I drank, I took uppers, and paced some more. I consumed gallons of coffee, brewed in the tiny four-cup machine I'd bought at the grocery market. (Although I followed the directions meticulously, the coffee still sucked.) I couldn't tell you which of the two events had been more unsettling. Maybe it was the confluence of the two that made each feel so heavy. I tried to separate them in my head, turning them over and examining them for what they were. That's not terribly easy to do when on (and over) the verge of drunk and high. I may have been awake, but I never said anything about alert, sober, or even aware. I did at least as much drinking and pill-popping as had become my habit during those sixty-some agonizing hours. (The coffee just made me jittery on top of everything else.) It was very likely, though, that I'd gone about the process all wrong: I've been told that weed is the better drug for rumination and contemplation, but I didn't have any and I stubbornly refused to leave my room during those three days of deliberate introspection. I was a tough jailer and gave myself no reprieve.

I set the Granger thing aside, or tried to, on the fourth day to focus on what had happened just prior to my awareness of her. I had always considered myself a strictly heterosexual male, never once having had any kind of attraction to another bloke. All of my early sexual experiences had been with girls, and I don't recall having gone through any period of sexual curiosity about my own gender, as I know some of my peers had done. When I fantasized – and that was remarkably often – it was always about women. I loved tits and kitties. And long, smooth legs. And a woman's scent of arousal. I was a world-class wanker, in the literal sense, and every time I tugged on my cock, it was a woman's form or voice or remembered scent that fueled my stimulation and took me over the edge.

Did one same-sex encounter negate a lifetime of both fantasy and actions? I didn't think so, but I had undeniably enjoyed it. Could I blame it on the drugs and circumstance? I hadn't deliberately gone to a gay bar; it was purely accidental that I'd been in that place at that time. As Tommy had noted, I had desperately wanted to "get my dick wet." He wasn't wrong about that, and he was willing, even eager, to help me achieve that end. Was I willing to allow that to happen in any way it could? Was I that much of a sex junkie – an orgasm junkie – to seek my pleasure from literally anyone who was willing to provide it? Just how far was I willing to go? If he'd pushed the issue, would I have fucked him? Would I have allowed him to fuck me? I thought that if I'd been high enough, the answer was probably "yes." I had, though, been just about as high as I'd ever been; pushing it any further would certainly take me to the land of overdose, and I'd already had one episode that had come far too close. I'd only had anal sex with one of the women I'd hooked up with – it was her "very special" kink, she'd told me, and she'd walked me through every step of the way - so while it wasn't something that was part of my usual repertoire, I was fairly adventurous in bed (so fucking easy to be when you're so spectacularly high) and I fundamentally understood the mechanics and dynamics. It was… interesting, but not something I thought most birds would be aching to do.

Are consent and participation under the influence of drugs and alcohol the same as consciously seeking out a particular type of sex partner, or was it just my unceasing quest for every orgasm I could find? At the time, I didn't have a concrete answer, nor did I understand what it would take for me to find one. The miniscule part of me that was still trying to find my way out of the darkness – with absolutely no success – feared the lengths I might go to in trying to find some clarity, a commodity that was in remarkably short supply since long before I'd escaped from the wizarding world. My desperation was just that deep. While I had no conscious intention to seek out experiences that would either confirm or refute any assumptions that I'd made about my sexual proclivities, I was confident that if I continued my substance consumption, those experiences would find me. And because all I cared about was being numb at least and blitzed at best, there was no way in hell that I planned to stop drinking or what I thought of as "recreational" drug use.

If I'd had a fully functioning brain in those days, I suppose I'd have begun to ask myself why my only behavioral choice was self-destruction. Did I hate my life – myself - so much that I was seeking escape, or was I looking for coward's way out? Suicide by passive neglect and active stupidity. I didn't have that level of self-awareness or self-discipline at that point, though, so the freeway I'd taken had no obvious off-ramp.

It might surprise one to learn that I thought that mornings were the worst. I typically woke around ten with some type of drug and or alcohol-induced malady. Thank the gods, I'd managed to stay focused enough at some point to brew a reasonably effective batch (or ten) of Sober-up and hangover remedies. I was going through them like most people would consume tea or coffee. I'd even had to get creative in finding a couple of substitute ingredients when my wizarding supplies began to run out. It's not like there was a Ministry-approved apothecary on the next block. Of course, that made the potions slightly less shelf-stable and marginally less effective, meaning I had to consume more of them and brew them more often. I'd set up a vicious cycle from which I saw no escape. There was no way on the Goddess' Earth that I was ready to make a trip to any wizarding community, so as long as my Muggle cash held out, or something drastic forced it, I refused to consider a trip to any location where the name 'Malfoy' might be known, regardless of the fact that I wasn't wearing my own face.

My reluctance had as much to do with fear of what I'd learn as fear of being recognized. Did I want to learn that I was now the last living Malfoy? The likelihood was not remote. Which of my friends or classmates had died and which were now behind the cruel bars of Azkaban? Was the wizarding world now fully under the control of a madman? Was my delusional aunt still casting Cruciatus curses at Half-bloods for fun? Did I still owe life debts to Potter and Granger? That question gave me pause, considering how sure I was that I'd seen her just a few nights earlier, regardless of how often I tried to convince myself otherwise. Did her presence in Liverpool – in such deplorable condition - mean that the worst had happened and she'd been banished from a pureblood-controlled society? The evidence was compelling if not conclusive. Were any Muggle-borns left alive, or had they… failed to escape? I was torturing myself with not knowing, but I had convinced myself that what I'd learn would cause still greater pain. The mornings were worst because it meant that I'd have to go through another day of wondering, followed by an afternoon, evening, and night of doing my level best to forget what I was supposed to be worrying - or grieving - over.

On the rare nights when I retained a small portion of my wits before succumbing to something that resembled sleep, I was still haunted by terrors that had me awakening to my own screams. I'd taken to casting Silencing charms around the room so as to not disturb my neighbors. (I'd learned that if I got too loud, they'd bang on the walls. The spells made that unnecessary and kept the peace.) I was rarely able to get back to sleep on those nights, resorting to my usual cocktail of drugs and alcohol to induce a haze, if not unconsciousness. On those days, I rarely rose before noon, when I'd start the pattern all over again.

The one useful thing I did during those few days was to experiment with my wand a bit. I started by shrinking its size slightly, then testing to see if it still performed as expected. With every successful alteration, I reduced the size by another inch, finally getting the overall length down to about five inches, roughly the size of a Muggle pen. I also tried (again) to see if I could multiply or duplicate anything from my food supply, but still had zero success on that front. At the very least, I knew that I could now carry the wand on me without worrying about it drawing undue attention.

Somewhere around day six or seven after what my brain had tagged "the Events", I belatedly became obsessed with trying to find Granger. I was so proud of myself for having managed to not think of it – her – for two whole days when she visited me in my dreams once again, pulling me out of the Fiendfyre, this time by my hair. (I chose not to interpret that as meaningful in any way.) I told myself that my purpose was to confirm that it wasn't her. The implications of her presence were more than I could handle, so I had to ease my concerns with at least the illusion that she'd been a delusion. I was so desperate that I even cut back – slightly – on the pills and hooch for a few days, intent on keeping a marginally clearer head. I'd even taken the time to craft a search grid of sorts. What good it would do in a city the size of Liverpool was questionable, at best. I was coherent enough to know that, even if I covered every square inch of the dock districts alone, she could always be one street or alley ahead of or behind me for weeks or months on end.

That didn't mean that I wouldn't try, though, and I made a fairly diligent attempt at it for several days. Although it probably would have been the reasonable thing to do since that's where I'd last seen her, I avoided more than a cursory glance down the alley where I'd stumbled upon the gay bar. I had any number of false sightings; I was surprised at the number of slim women with curly chestnut hair I encountered. None of them were Granger, of course, and I began to tell myself that the woman I'd seen was just another of these doppelgangers. I couldn't decide whether I was relieved or dismayed by that. (Never once, though, did I consider what I'd do if I actually found her. I wasn't me, Draco Malfoy, and she had no reason to know who I was. That knowledge would probably not have helped the situation, at least at that juncture.) It was on the evening of the fourth day of searching that other temptations and pursuits began to draw my attention away from what had seemed like a sacred mission just hours before.

The highs began calling to me. I'd even been rather lazy in my self-pleasuring, only getting off once or twice a day, and I'd not had sex with, uh, anyone in over a week, closing in on two. (That my last partner had been a male was something that I forcefully pushed out of my psyche as I made the decision to go out for the night with the intention of getting laid.) If I'd had half a brain, I would have recognized that my focus on a purpose had actually been good for me. That it was so easy to talk myself out of (relatively) sober behavior should have been a warning.

It should also have been troubling how incredibly easy it was to fall back into the heavy drinking and pills, but the pull was stronger than I could resist. I can't tell you the whole story because I simply don't remember a very large and material chunk of it, strong evidence that I'd managed to get that high on my own, or that I'd been drugged with what I've learned is called a "date-rape" substance. Either scenario is plausible, but in this case, I lean toward the latter as being significantly more likely, as I do only have clear recollection of having had one drink after leaving my room that night. That, again, should have scared the crap out of me, but it's apparent that I wasn't yet ready to face the world as a sober adult.

The night started as dozens of others had. I had a couple of drinks – Scotch, neat – before heading out to find another new bar or club. (I hadn't come close yet to exhausting Liverpool's supply of drinking establishments.) I had some E and some blow in my pocket, ready to ingest either (or both) as the evening progressed. With as much optimism and confidence as I could muster, I stuffed a handful of condoms in my other pocket.

I walked about fifteen blocks eastward, away from the docks, and settled on a smallish place with stucco walls and heavy wooden crossbeams decorating the façade. The windows were covered by what appeared to be brown velvet curtains. There was definitely a dark vibe about the establishment, though, and that suited my mood. I'd found that pubs with darker lighting were more conducive to quicker hook-ups. Maybe it was in my imagination, but it was an assumption that hadn't yet failed me. When I pushed the door open, my assessment from the outside proved correct. Dark wood paneling, heavy wrought iron fixtures, and thick walnut tables and chairs were all barely discernable in the dimly lit club. It wasn't quite as dark as the gay bar I'd inadvertently patronized, but that had been something quite out of the norm.

Having eaten a ham and cheddar sandwich earlier in the evening, I saw no point to finding a table as I planned to do nothing more than drink and chat up ladies who I deemed potentially fuckable. There were a couple of seats open at the rustic bar and I picked the one furthest from the door, all the better to accommodate my desire for darkness.

After ordering my Scotch (my usual double, neat) from the bartender, I took a moment to absorb my surroundings and weigh my prospects for getting laid in the next couple of hours. Tucked in among the small tables was a postage-stamp-sized dance floor. If it was even eight feet square, I'd be stunned. The fact that the music playing over a sound system was a driving techno-beat with a heavy bass line that nearly forced one to physically keep time was the only reason that a half-dozen couples had squeezed themselves into the tiny space. This was the kind of music that forced a person's heartbeat to synchronize, lest it skip a beat. In any case, what the couples were doing could hardly be called dancing. I'd had dancing lessons as a youngster, and nothing here came close. No, this was simply vertical dry-humping. I needed to get in on that action. To that end, I looked around as my eyes adjusted to the dimness, finding a handful of females who appeared to be unattached. Most of them seemed to be a couple of years older than me, although at just barely over eighteen, I was probably one of the youngest people in the building. I still thought my life experience in having survived the Dark Lord and a war matured me far beyond my years. In retrospect, I guess one's definition of maturity is relative.

As my first drink was placed on the bar before me, and I handed the bartender my payment and a generous tip, I debated for a moment whether to pop some molly. The night was still young, though, and I managed enough self-restraint to hold off. I liked my highs, obviously, but fucking under the influence of mood-enhancing drugs was totally mind-blowing. Until I found a partner for the night, I'd refrain, with the intent of making the main event that much more intense. Before I could finish my Scotch, for once not slamming it like a shot, a woman approached the bar, squeezing into the space between me and the occupied stool to my left. It seemed she was a regular, as the bartender slid a draft of stout across the wooden surface with the comment, "Here you go, Sal." If they hadn't been so close to me, I'd have never heard the exchange over the music, the volume of which seemed to have increased exponentially in the last several moments.

"On my tab, Greg?" she replied with a smile.

"Just like the last three," he answered, smirking, then turning away to tend to other patrons.

Since she hadn't paid me any mind, I figured she would be off to find whatever friend or date she'd momentarily left behind. Instead, she turned, leaning her left side against the bar and lifting her glass to me in salute. "You're cute, blondie," she complimented. "Wanna party?"

It was odd to be called "blondie" and for a moment, I wondered if I'd forgotten to apply my Glamours. The quickest glance to the mirror behind the bar confirmed that I was wearing the visage of Drew Blackman. I guess my hair was still fairly light-colored.

If she was game, so was I. I loved forward birds; they were so much fun in the sack. "Depends on what you have in mind, luv, but I'm pretty flexible," I retorted, deliberately inserting the phrase that could have been interpreted any number of ways.

She raked me over with her eyes. "I'll just bet you are." She chuckled suggestively. "You'll have to be very flexible for what I have in mind."

I arched a brow in question.

She pressed against me to whisper in my ear. "You, me, and at least another friend. Maybe two. You up for it?"

I'm certain she looked directly at my crotch. I swallowed. That was a little bit more than I had bargained for. One partner at a time was enough for me, even when I was sky-high, I reasoned. My hesitation seemed to annoy her, but the flash of irritation in her eyes dissipated quickly. She put her arms around my neck and drew closer, flicking my earlobe with her tongue.

"Are you sure I can't persuade you?"

I cleared my throat nervously. I wasn't yet drunk enough to consent to something so far outside my usual repertoire. Then again, if she'd approached me after another drink or two…

Now, I know – at least I'm nearly certain - that I didn't say any of that aloud, but the next thing I knew, she was pushing my glass into my hand (which had of its own volition found its way to her hip) and encouraging me to drink up.

That's the last thing I remembered.

I woke up, probably hours later, though there was no way to immediately know for sure how much time had passed, in a condition and situation that was pretty shocking, even to me. I did conclude that it wasn't yet morning because I could see through a window that it was still dark. I was face-down, naked, on a mattress. Not a bed, a mattress. (It did have a sheet, at least, or so it seemed.) A large one. On the floor. And I wasn't alone. My head was foggy and pounding, and I struggled to comprehend and decipher what had happened. The woman who'd approached me was on my right. At least, I'm fairly sure it was the same person. She, too, was naked. As was the dark-haired bloke on the other side of her. I lifted my head and turned to my left, quietly so as to not rouse anyone, and saw another naked woman. The room was dark, but not so dark that I couldn't see the half-dozen used condoms on and around the bedding. I got up as quickly and quietly as I could, used the dim light from the window to find my clothes (which I donned with astonishing speed), ensuring that my pen-sized wand was still in my trouser pocket, and got the hell out of there. In my haze, it took me a good twenty minutes to figure out where the hell I was, and another half-hour to find my way back to my rooming house. The light was just beginning to crack the horizon as I fell onto my own bed.

To this day, I don't know exactly what happened that night, but I have any number of educated guesses. First, I'd bet on roofies in the drink the woman was so eager for me to finish. One of her pals probably spiked it while I was distracted by her. That was a switch; it was usually birds who had to watch out for that kind of thing. If she'd allowed me to get to my usual state of drunkenness, that probably wouldn't have even been necessary. I'd learned by that time that my sexual adventurousness knew few bounds. If I was drugged with that shit, however, I couldn't have been an active participant in whatever sex games the bird and her friends cooked up. That meant that I was completely passive, which probably explained the tenderness I felt in areas that typically weren't subject to, uh, intrusion. I probably wouldn't have chosen to allow that. If the sticky state of my cock gave any indication, they probably fed me one of those little blue pills to avail themselves of my todger. I threw up four times that early morning, although I wasn't exactly sure why.

Considering the fact that I had very little idea exactly what I'd done and what had be done to me, I took enough Sober-up potion to ensure that I was clear-headed so that I could decide what I needed to keep myself disease-free. My first step was a Sanitizing charm. Okay, so maybe it was a dozen. On my mouth alone. I made sure not to miss any spot that could have been subject to unintended incursion of foreign substances. Any wizard worth his salt keeps a broad-spectrum antibiotic potion in his kit, so I, thankfully, had that available for immediate ingestion. I also spent a good hour in a very hot shower, then slept most of the day away. I didn't go out that night, or the one after.

It took me some months to realize the broader implications of what had happened that night, and what had caused me to want to upchuck everything I'd ever eaten. Sure, some of it had been the hangover from the drugs and alcohol, but that was only a small part of it. I had attempted to excuse and suppress the idea that I'd been raped with my own reckless behavior. That was sickening on more levels than I cared to consider. My world view had always contained the conviction that men didn't get raped. And the truth is, even if I might have "consented" after a few more drinks - an intrinsically dubious idea, I finally realized - that opportunity was taken away from me. My free will was ignored and I was used in a way that was out of my control. It forced me to confront my own cajoling, if not coercing, of women when one or both of us was under the influence. For a short while, at least, it was a sobering thought.


	9. Chapter 8

One might think that an occurrence of blatant sexual manipulation such as the one to which I'd been subjected would make me more cautious, and it did, although probably not in the ways most people might have expected. It didn't keep me out of bars and clubs, that's for sure. Instead, I wracked my brain for days, trying to remember the charm that my mother had once taught me to render one's food and drink impervious to poisons. Since there was a remarkably broad array of such dastardly material available in the wizarding world, I made the logical leap that any counteracting charm would also be effective against Muggle concoctions. If only I could remember it. The very fact that I couldn't was troubling; I'd cast that charm hundreds of times while old Snake-face and his band of miscreants were "visitors" at my family home. I never trusted any of them. It had been quite a number of months since I'd used that particular spell, but one would think it should have become well-cemented in my magical repertoire. Was I losing my magical skill by virtue of not practicing my craft with regularity, or was I just losing it?

I remember scoffing over the whole thing, adding another weight on the scale of all the things I needed to worry over. My strategy, though, was not to stop going out. There were highs to be reached and birds to be fucked, after all. I was perfectly eager to do that, but on my own terms. So, my drinks at the bar were consumed quickly, as shots, or on the rare occasions when my booze of choice for the evening wasn't conducive to that method, I placed my hand over the top of my glass at all times, as I'd seen many ladies do, finally understanding why. Someone would have to dislodge my hand or find a way to pour something directly through it. Even magic couldn't accomplish that without notice.

I was also a bit more mindful about hooking up with ladies who were not so completely drunk when they gave consent to a sexual encounter that there'd be any question about willingness. If we both got stinking high after that agreement was reached, so be it. All the better, in my opinion. High upon high upon fucking high was, without question, still my goal. My experience, however, now required that there be absolutely no guilt to be assuaged over potential misunderstandings of who had said "yes" to what. That all made me wonder when this drunk had become a moral person, and what that might mean for my life after I stopped freaking out over my terrifying past, if I ever made it to that point.

I slowly came to understand that I spent so much time with my head in a fog so that I didn't have to spend time in my head, if that makes sense. I didn't want to think, ruminate, consider. All of that led to memories and conclusions that were traumatizing on emotional, physical, and psychological grounds. A Mind Healer probably would have been the better choice than drugs and alcohol, but I didn't want to deal with it; I wanted to do nothing less than forget. If I'd been able to find a way to Obliviate myself, I surely would have done it. One can "remove" memories to some degree, but even if I could rid myself of the worst of them, there were so many that layered upon each other that I had no hope to cleanse my brain of them, and that led me to inaction. Yes, there it was in a nutshell: no hope. Thus, for months on end, I drank, took drugs, and fucked any willing person. Therein was my escape. I didn't think about being forced to cast Unforgiveables when I was downing my sixth double Scotch of the night. I couldn't be haunted by the screams of Professor Burbage when a snort or two of coke had me euphoric. I was unable to worry about whether my failures would cause my "Lord" to kill my mother in cold blood when I was balls-deep in a pretty little blonde.

Developing a more cogent awareness of why I did what I did was not a path to changing my behavior. If anything, it spurred me on. If two mollies made me forget life under Snake-face, four would make me forget more, or for longer, I reasoned. I was self-enabling with every orgasm, every pill, every potion, every snort, and every drink. I was spending more money on booze and drugs than I was on food or rent. I'd managed to blow through (almost literally) nearly £3000 in six months, a little more than a third of the Muggle cash I'd brought with me. And I'd come no closer to even considering what I might do to replenish my funds. I knew I had a safety net with my Galleons, but at that point, I wasn't even close to contemplating a trip back to the wizarding world, regardless of how far from Diagon Alley the nearest branch of Gringotts might be. I wasn't ready to know. Blissful ignorance and blissful oblivion were marvelously compatible bed partners.

There, though, was one of those loose ends in the form of Granger. It had been six, maybe seven weeks since I'd abandoned my search for the woman I'd seen, nearly convincing myself that I'd been mistaken. I had, after all, been spectacularly high and still shuddering in the throes of one of the most intense orgasms I'd ever had. Maybe it was my overactive imagination all along. Something in my subconscious, however, just couldn't let it go. After having left the whole idea behind me for a number of weeks, it had come back with a vengeance, for no conscious reason.

If I'm to be as unflinchingly honest as I've tried to be whilst sharing my tale, it almost certainly had something to do with a woman I picked up on one of my more blitzed excursions. I'd had four or five double shots in the space of about an hour and a half, which was slightly ahead of my normal pace. I wasn't incoherent, but I sure as hell wasn't sober. A woman at the bar had been making eyes at me – well, at Drew - for a few minutes and I'd been making them right back at her. She was of average height, slim build, big brown eyes, pouty, deep pink lips, and although I couldn't tell immediately because it was captured in a chignon at the back of her neck, long, curly, chestnut-colored hair. This became evident when she pulled out a pin or two and her whole mane came tumbling down over her shoulders. All while she looked directly at me.

Now, it's very possible that my well-pickled brain recognized her as just another Granger look-alike. I may have considered for a fleeting moment that it was Granger, slightly Glamoured much in the way I was, and that she'd caught hint of my magic. Whoever she was, I was intrigued – or possibly just curious - and she was definitely sending signals of similar interest. I had the bartender send her another drink with my compliments, and she smiled at me before finally abandoning her seat to approach me. Did I say that I loved forward birds? Yeah, I think I did.

"Thanks for the drink," she said, sliding onto the empty bar stool beside me.

"My pleasure," I replied. How fucking original. It seemed that her resemblance to my former academic adversary had shaken my game. And up close, the similarity was only slightly less disconcerting. I was reasonably experienced at picking up birdsbints, though, so I gathered my available wits and used a line that had been rather successful for me, and had the additional advantage of being more true than usual. "You look so familiar to me. Have we met before?" I asked, making as much warm eye contact as I was able with my slightly swimming vision. I hoped that my speech was not obviously slurred.

"I don't think so, but I'm sure we can remedy that. I'm Elizabeth," she told me, lifting her glass as though to toast.

"Happy to make your acquaintance. I'm Dra… Drew," I stammered. After so many months using my alter-ego's moniker, I could scarcely believe that I'd almost slipped and given her my real name.

I won't bore you with the details of our exchange, because it really was just two people trying to figure out if the other was up for a fuck. It didn't take long to come to the conclusion that we were both on the same page. Bar tabs were paid, jackets were gathered, and we walked a bit unsteadily out of the place – another club that I'd never visit again – with our tongues down each other's throats.

Her apartment was nearer than mine – thank Merlin, because I still hadn't brought a woman back to my place and never intended to, nor was I eager to spring for a motel room – and when she opened the door, she breathed an audible sigh of relief as she picked up a note on the table addressed to "Lizzie."

"My flatmate's out. Gone to her mum's for the weekend." She smiled wickedly. "We can fuck all over the place, if you want." She shrugged out of her jacket and unbuttoned her blouse, giving me the unambiguous message that she was ready to play.

"Want another drink?" she offered. "I've got whisky, vodka, and red wine."

I hesitated only briefly before making my counteroffer. "I've got something a little more… adventurous, if you're interested." Turned out she was, and we did lines of coke, undressing each other swiftly as the high slammed our bloodstreams.

She was a wild little beast, and we took full advantage of several different surfaces throughout the flat, trying out different positions for each of them. It was one of my better fuck-fests, if I do say so, until I went and ruined it with my big mouth, undoubtedly due, at least in part, to my immense level of substance intoxication.

We'd finally made it to her bed, and I'd bent her over face-down, fucking her doggy-style, her face obscured by her long curls. She moaned deliciously every time my sac hit her clit and I could feel another orgasm quickly building deep in my bollocks. I was hitting her hard and fast and, out of nowhere, I heard myself shout, "Yes, Hermione, yes!"

Talk about a mood killer. In the two minutes or less that it took me to get dressed after she told me to get the fuck out, my mind was racing along with my heart, which still hadn't calmed from the orgasm that had hit while I was calling some other woman's name. I'd never been attracted to Granger. Never. It's not that I didn't think she wasn't reasonably fit; she just wasn't my type. My irrational obsession with finding her most definitely did not include any element of wanting to fuck her admittedly formidable brains out. Truthfully, she'd have been the last twat in which I cared to get my dick wet. (Although at the rate I was using up women, she might just have been the only woman under thirty left on the continent, if I'd kept up that pace for much longer.) Apparently, however, she was on my mind (Lizzie really was a remarkable physical facsimile), and I'd committed the unforgiveable sin of using her name while my cock was inside another woman. Maybe it was, subconsciously, an aggression thing. That probably was worse, if I took any time to analyze it, which I didn't. I swear. Using her given name rather than the "Granger" that I typically did was absolutely immaterial. Really.

Now, I definitely didn't go out from that night on looking for Granger-substitutes to fuck. If anything, I conscientiously avoided having sex with women who had curly brown hair. A repeat of the fiasco with Lizzie was not in the cards. I did, though, renew my search to determine once and for all whether it actually was the swotty former Gryffindor whom I had seen that night some three months earlier. This was the one thing that I just had to know. It was becoming a fixation, nearly as much as my unceasing quest for intoxication and orgasms.

Therefore, I created a new plan. Looking back, it was at least as shitty as the first one, but it renewed my focus and gave me something to do that had at least the appearance of being productive. I got up every morning no later than nine o'clock, showered away whatever bodily fluids I'd managed to collect on my person the night before, consumed a hangover relief potion and the remains of a crumbled lemon scone or some similar chunk of carbohydrate-rich victuals for breakfast, and headed out into the world to continue my hunt. For Merlin knows what reason, I did begin to think of Granger as my prey or quarry. What I'd do with her if, or when, I found her still never crossed my mind. I remember searching through the odd array of items I'd brought with me to see if, by some bizarre and improbable stroke of luck, I had a photograph that just happened to have captured her image. Of course, I didn't – that would have just made my life way too easy – but it had been another mini-project that had occupied an hour or two of my time with something other than wanking.

Another three weeks passed in a slightly lesser haze than the one in which I'd lived for the previous seven or eight months – time was rather irrelevant and I'd only kept loose track of the passage of days – and my lack of success hadn't had much effect on my enthusiasm for my mission, such as it was. My evenings were still full of plenty of debauchery, but I'd been conscious of the need to keep a clearer head if I was to avoid pointlessly chasing my own proverbial tail. I made every effort to be back in my own bed no later than two, any partner for the night left to her own devices after we'd finished whatever decadence we'd started. Some nights were more successful than others in achieving the goal I'd set for myself.

On one of those nights, two o'clock had come and gone long before, and I was still in some bimbo's bed, on the receiving end of some truly remarkable head, and whatever high I was experiencing was now of the purely physical variety, the cocktail of chemicals I'd ingested having worn off at least an hour earlier. (I'm embarrassed to say that as memorable as the act was, I don't remember her name, but she wasn't the first for whom that would be true, and certainly wasn't the last. What a man-whore I was!) Anyway, I recall that I was practically shaking with the effort to avoid coming until I was good and ready, but she had other ideas and did this little trick with her pinky in an especially sensitive spot that sent me over the edge regardless of any attempt I might have made to delay the explosion. I remember that she was licking her lips while my eyes were rolling back in my head and using her fingers to get herself off. When I regained enough of my composure to lean over with the intention of returning the favor, she slapped me away, apparently intent on finishing the job on her own. Reaching the conclusion that I'd overstayed my welcome, I started gathering up the clothing that I'd stripped off. That next ten minutes got very strange, and the ten after that were positively surreal.

"You don't have to go," I remember her saying.

Glancing pointedly at her crotch where her fingers were still stroking, I said in my most patrician drawl, "It seems you've got things well under control."

She laughed. "Oh, it's nothing to do with you. I just really like it when a guy watches while I get myself off. A little exhibitionism, I guess."

I smirked and sat back down on the bed, leaning forward to get a better view. "By all means, then, don't let me stop you." Since I'd come just a few moments before, I didn't think I could get it up again quite so quickly, but I was willing to try. I licked my palm and stroked my cock in time with the motions of her hand, practically staring right into her kitty. There was enough visual stimulation that I managed to stroke out a passable orgasm. Nothing in comparison to the one she'd coaxed from me with her mouth, but it was better than not having one. So, about six or seven minutes had passed and we'd both managed to recover sufficiently that it was now getting awkward. A glance at the clock revealed that it was nearly half three, and I renewed my earlier attempt to get dressed and make my retreat. This time, she didn't protest. I managed to make my escape in another two minutes flat, offering my excuses about the need to rise early.

It was when I made it to the street that the world decided to shift on its axis. I'd heard something like scuffling in the darkness, followed by a woman's terrified shriek. My knees might have been a bit wobbly from my recent orgasms, but my brain was as clear as it was apt to be in that moment. I squinted, trying to make out any shapes or movements in the shadows, palming my transfigured wand (I'd settled on a Muggle biro as its disguise, its inherent magic allowing me to tell the difference between it and an actual writing instrument) in the event that I needed to defend myself. I heard the sounds of a struggle and another scream, this time distinguishable as the word "No!" and a male voice responding with a malicious sound of derision. A second male voice, much lower-pitched, joined the din immediately thereafter. I'd crept closer to the scene of the altercation without having specifically intended to do anything, at least not on a conscious level. The headlights of a passing auto suddenly revealed the situation, and it answered as many questions as it presented.

There she was, the woman for whom I'd been searching for weeks, her back against a brick wall. It appeared that her blouse was torn and the two men who'd cornered her clearly had sinister intentions. She was wobbly, but whether that was because of an injury or a state of intoxication was unclear. What was no longer in dispute was the fact that Hermione Granger was definitely the woman who'd witnessed my most unexpected foray into sexual experimentation. It was also eminently obvious that she was in immediate mortal peril, if the blades glinting in the moonlight were any indication. Her feeble attempts at self-defense did not seem to include her wand, and she was outweighed and overpowered by a long way. Before I could even fully process the thought, I'd stepped into the breach, casting a spell to hold the two assailants immobile and reaching for Granger's arm to tug her away.

From that close proximity, I was then able to draw the conclusion that she was plastered – barely able to maintain balance on her own two feet. The stench of alcohol mixed with weed was only too familiar to me. Her state of inebriation didn't seem to deter her for very long. She tugged her arm from my grasp and, without a word of thanks or more than a vacant stare, she staggered off into the night. She displayed no indication that she'd had any comprehension that she'd been rescued by an application of magic, either. Was she so far gone that she'd failed to recognize an Immobilus spell when she saw one, or was she deliberate in ignoring the fact?

I remember being particularly indecisive. Should I have followed her? Although I'd extracted her from her obvious predicament, she didn't know "me" – Drew. It took me those few seconds as I watched her sway unsteadily to allow it to register that she wouldn't have reacted to Drew in the same way she might have reacted to Draco. It may have been a blessing in disguise. Having another stranger follow her could have made the situation worse, I suppose. She couldn't trust my motivations any more than any other man's. While the debate played out in my head, she managed to slip away, so it became a moot point. At least I now knew that I hadn't been crazy. She was here in Liverpool, and at that moment, seemed to be in worse shape than I was. Now that that part of the mystery had been solved, I had a new one to ponder at deeper levels. It had crossed my mind more than once, but only in a thoroughly hypothetical sense. Now it was real.

Why was she here, apparently alone, and in such horrific condition? I now had some information about the area she seemed to frequent – we were only two blocks from the gay club I'd patronized – so I was feeling more certain about the probability that I'd see her again. If I'd been smart, I'd have walked away and never looked back, but I was then and always will be a sucker for a mystery. In my subconscious, I'm sure that I recognized that whatever her story was would probably solve other mysteries that had been tugging on my brain for many months. As much as I told myself that I didn't want to know, some part of me needed it.

Before I left the scene, I turned back to the two blokes I'd immobilized and cast a targeted Obliviate; they'd have no memory of their assault on my former classmate nor of my intervention. For good measure, I hexed the bastards. Neither would get a good stiffy for weeks. They could stand there for another hour until my original spell wore off, finally allowing them freedom of movement. I'd be long gone by then. At the time, I failed to even consider whether the magic I'd cast against a couple of Muggles would have been tracked. An hour later, as I was settling in for some sleep, the realization of my mistake brought me fully alert. I stared at the ceiling until dawn, hoping that the signature of my magic had been small enough to evade notice. Since no one had come knocking and there had been no Howler (how the old men at the desk would have explained that to themselves might have been amusing!), I was marginally optimistic that I'd gotten away with my impromptu defense of Miss Granger unscathed.


	10. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The search bears fruit and contact is made.

I can’t recall a time in my life when I’d faced a more vexing dilemma, with my decision to depart from the wizarding world as the only possible exception. Truth be told, that choice was far less emotionally taxing – at least initially – than the one that faced me as I closed in on nine months away from my former home.

Nine months I’d been gone, living my alternatingly exhilarating and bleak existence as Drew Blackman. Just long enough for a baby to be born, I reflected. Well, I didn’t have much to show for the gestational term I’d spent in Liverpool. The life that I’d birthed wasn’t one to celebrate, to be sure. Most days felt more funereal than expectant, regardless of how drunk or high I managed to get. There was something, however, on the horizon. A verdict that I dreaded and relished equally would have to be reached, and I somehow knew in my bones that the course I selected would be the single most momentous of my life.

It really was stark and simple, for all its potential ramifications. I had only one piece of information to sway me from one course to the other, and it was something that had consumed far more of my time and energy than I’d expected. That bit of data was the fact that Hermione Granger truly was alive – and not so well – only blocks from where I lay my head every night.

It was the only event in memory that made me wish I’d had more characteristics in common with a Ravenclaw than the Slytherin I’d been raised to be. A more clinical, academic assessment of the potential outcome of my decision might have been less stressful than the personal advantages I’d been trained to calculate.

The deliberation absorbed so much of my mental energy that I refrained from getting high for nearly a week. I still drank. I still got laid. I still couldn’t keep my own hand off my cock. The drugs, though, screwed with my thought processes on entirely different levels, and I felt the need for at least some measure of mental clarity.

In the end, I made the decision for which I knew I was destined from the second the thought even occurred to me. Now that I knew, I would make every effort to find her and actually make contact. That’s the point at which I started to understand the rolling avalanche of choices and their myriad consequences. Every metaphorical stone seemed to turn another one over, and I wondered which of them might crush or bury me.

I was confident that I could find her; I knew the area quite well by that point. She hadn’t seemed to be hiding, per se, because she’d made no apparent effort to change her appearance. Even if she’d somehow become separated from her wand, Muggles had inexpensive hair dyes, and a passable haircut could be obtained for under ten quid at one of those franchise shops. So, I concluded, she either believed that no one cared to look for her or she didn’t care if she were found.

The next tumbling stone was the question of my own identity. As had been clear in our two previous encounters, my own appearance alterations had been sufficient that I went unrecognized after reasonably close contact with someone whom I’d known for almost half of my life. So my debate came to be over the question of when I did make contact, should it be as my “new” self, or as the classmate who’d been anything but a friend or ally throughout her years in the magical world.

I had serious doubts that she’d recognize me as her rescuer considering that she’d barely even looked at me as I removed her from her predicament. Even if she had, she’d been so wasted that I was completely certain she wouldn’t remember me. The only thing that might have given me away would have been my voice, and I hadn’t spoken more than a word, maybe two, before she tottered away, certainly not enough to have revealed myself. I thought it was slightly more likely that she would have recognized me from our first encounter, although I’m mortified to admit that her attention had seemed to be… somewhere south of my face. If that were true, it might have actually worked in my favor; she probably wouldn’t have felt as threatened to be approached by a man she’d thought to be gay.

The problem with the entire “Drew” strategy was that it would have given me almost no wiggle room to learn anything about how and why she’d come to be in Liverpool, and that was becoming an unrelenting itch under my skin. The Statute of Secrecy prohibited her from sharing information with someone she thought to be a Muggle, and it would have been at least as risky to proclaim myself a wizard other than Draco Malfoy. While there were a few of our age who hadn’t attended Hogwarts for one reason or another, there weren’t more than a handful. It would have been a tough sell.

As Draco Malfoy, however, saying there was no love lost between us was positively laughable. She had not been at Hogwarts during what would have been her Seventh year. While there must have been a few who knew with some confidence, most of us assumed that she’d either gone underground as many other Muggle-borns had done, or she, like Potter and Weasley were assumed to be, was involved in efforts to undermine the Dark Lord. I know that there was more than one time when I fervently hoped that the latter was the case. There was no way she could have known that, though. Oh, I suppose that there were rumors floating around about my ambivalence – Merlin knows it was a topic of discussion in the Slytherin dormitories, whether or not they realized that I knew they were speculating about my loyalties – but the Gryffindor cadre was probably not privy to any actions that I took, or failed to take as the case may have been. The bottom line was that, again, she had no reason to trust me.

At that point, I hadn’t yet seen her again, but I’d not been actively searching, either. I needed to have a more solid plan, I thought, about the whys and wherefores before I approached her. It wouldn’t do to be confronted with the opportunity before I was equipped to manage the aftermath, I thought. There would still be time for me to sort it all out, I reasoned. So I went out for my usual evening’s carousing, indulging in one hit of molly – gods, I’d missed that high – and engaging in a particularly satiating round of mutual oral pleasuring with a delicious dirty blonde. (Take that however you will. I may have cleaned up my act since then, but my penchant for ribald expression… not so much.) I stumbled back to my room, stripped off, fell asleep, and forgot all about my need to plan for my eventual confrontation with Miss Granger, roughly in that order.

To say that I was completely unprepared when she quite literally fell into my lap three nights later is the grossest understatement of the millennium. I’ll recount to the best of my ability the sequence of events on that day.

The previous night having been a rare night in, I’d awakened a bit earlier than usual, probably half eight or quarter ‘til nine. I’d not had an inordinate amount to drink, so my head was without its usual pounding. At least I didn’t have to consume any of that horrid-tasting hangover potion. (Why the wizarding world can’t seem to concoct medicinal potions that don’t taste like shite is beyond me.) One very satisfying hot shower, a cup of coffee, and a bowl of instant porridge later, I pulled a pair of jeans over my boxers and donned a lightweight cotton jumper. It may have been February, but the heat in the room was stifling. Regulating the temperature with the little knob on the wall – its purpose finally explained to me by one of the proprietors - seemed to be beyond my ability to accurately conquer. When it got uncomfortable to one extreme or the other, I solved the issue with a charm. But I digress.

After breakfast, I went to the lobby to purchase one of the several daily newspapers that were available. It wasn’t something that I did often, but once every week or so, I felt the need to understand that there was a world going on out there beyond my hedonistic existence. Bringing the Liverpool Daily Post back to my room, I stretched out on the bed with another cup of coffee and settled in for an hour or so, reading the tabloid from cover to cover. The fact that close to half of what I read meant very little to me didn’t diminish the value of the temporary diversion. Although I looked for clues to events in my world in the form of unexplained phenomena, there was nothing in the paper that pointed to issues that should concern me. Eventually, though, I became restless and hungry, so I changed into a warmer jumper, laced up my boots – grateful for the durable, waterproof, and rugged dragonhide – and buttoned up my black wool pea-coat.

Venturing out into the cold, I didn’t have a specific agenda beyond getting something for lunch. My makeshift pantry was pretty bare and a visit to the market was overdue, but I just couldn’t work up the enthusiasm for that chore at that moment. I wandered around until I found a hole-in-the-wall pub with nothing but a sandwich and a beer or two on my mind. Any “lunch crowd” that might have been present was long gone by half-one, so I had my choice of tables and all the privacy I could stand.

As I sat there sipping my first beer and waiting for my roast beef on rye, it dawned on me that I hadn’t given much more thought in the previous day or two to the question of how I would approach Granger. I realized that, as days passed, the possibility that she’d move on (or worse) increased. By this point, I had fully committed to the idea of confronting her but still struggled mightily with the logistics of it. I must have been more absorbed in thought than usual, because I belatedly noticed that the waitress had placed my sandwich on the table without me registering the fact. I ate slowly, almost mechanically, while I continued to weigh my options.

It must have been a good ninety minutes later that I finally left the pub, having made a sizable dent in the sandwich that must have had close to a pound of meat, its accompanying massive pile of chips, and polishing off three pints. I was pleasantly full and just shy of mildly buzzed. My attention was drawn by a flash of movement about fifty yards away, and my breath caught when I saw that unmistakable hair. She was moving quickly, though, and away from me. While there were no obstacles between us, I wasn’t at my best, feeling just a bit sluggish after my larger-than-usual lunch. Not wanting to make a spectacle of myself, I jogged rather than dashed toward the end of the block to see if I could catch up with her. My reward for the effort was nothing more than a stitch in my side. She’d disappeared from sight in those handful of seconds it had taken me to reach the corner, and there were enough cross streets and buildings that there was little point to a search. I was disappointed, but not dejected. My assumptions about her general location had been right, and I knew it was just a matter of time before we came face to face again.

As I leaned against a building to catch my breath – gods, it was clear that vigorous sex, no matter how frequent, was nowhere near enough to keep one in any kind of physical condition – I allowed myself to relish the thought that success in my mission was near. (I selectively ignored the direct and substantial impact that the drugs and alcohol had made on my general health.) Why that miniscule bit of apparent progress made me so… giddy, I had no earthly idea. Maybe it was the idea that I could have any success at all that wasn’t directly tied to getting my rocks off. There hadn’t been much of that kind of triumph in the last couple of years.

I checked the cheap wristwatch I always wore and determined that I had probably an hour and a half before the afternoon sky turned to full darkness. Shadows in the alleys were already long. I debated over whether it would be more productive to hang around to see if she’d emerge from one of the shops or eating establishments, or to head back to my room and try again later in the evening. Weighing my options and the odds, I decided that I’d go back to the rooming house for a kip, then come back later in the evening. After all, I reasoned, the other two occasions on which I’d seen her had been fairly late into the night.

As I made my way back, I counted the pubs, bars, and clubs in the immediate vicinity. There were seventeen of them. I realized then that my odds of finding her quickly weren’t high. Rather than patronizing each establishment, I thought I might be better off strolling the streets in the area. That decided, I hastened back, stripping off, stretching out on my bed and indulging in a leisurely, sleep-inducing wank. The next thing I knew, I’d awakened to a darkened room three hours later.

To shake off my drowsiness, I showered, using that as my excuse to get off again, dressed in a pair of dark blue trousers and a dark grey jumper, and cast my usual Glamours. It was now close to eight o’clock, and while that was a bit early for any bar scene to get cranking, I figured it would give me time to grab something to eat before my surveillance mission began in earnest. I tucked my transfigured wand into my right pocket, tugged on my boots and buttoned into my pea-coat. Stuffing a small wad of cash into my wallet – reflecting briefly that such a thing would never be used in the wizarding world and only vaguely missing the weight and sound of a full Galleon pouch at my belt – I made my way determinedly to the neighborhood where I’d seen her only hours earlier.

One uneventful meal and two unproductive hours of wandering the streets later, I found myself getting tired, antsy, and thirsty. I was as sober as I’d been in months, and while I wasn’t deliberately out to get drunk or high, a small libation to take the edge off would not be unwelcome. Without regard to my usual rule of never frequenting the same bar or pub twice (which I, admittedly, had begun to violate once in a blue moon – there were only so many of them, after all), I opened the door to the first drinking establishment that I encountered. It happened to be one that I’d not visited previously, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t completely typical of the genre. It was dark, loud, crowded, and, regrettably, smoky on that late Friday evening.

I made my way to the bar, hailed the tender’s attention, and waited for a handful of seconds while he poured my double Scotch, neat. Paying the six quid he requested, I snaked my way along the length of the bar until I claimed a seat at a table that had just been vacated by some bloke being dragged onto the dance floor by his girl, if their easy familiarity were any indication. I watched about two dozen patrons moving to the heavy bass beat while others tried to hold conversations with pals, dates, or potential conquests over the noise. A small number of people - mostly those at the bar – seemed lost in their own worlds, getting pleasantly buzzed and waiting for something or someone to draw their attention elsewhere. I sipped at my drink, allowing my hands to warm the alcohol in my glass which in turn warmed my blood. About twenty minutes later, my libation finished, I turned toward the bar to request another. While the bulk of my attention was on my brief conversation with the barkeep, I heard the scrape of a chair, laughter, and a warning call of “Careful!”

That’s when Hermione Granger fell right into my lap.

Instinct took over, and I wrapped my arms around her to prevent her from tumbling to the floor. Now seated firmly on my thighs, my inebriated former classmate turned her wavering gaze to meet my stunned one. She seemed to struggle to focus on my face, probably subconsciously sensing my Glamours. She frowned, stroked a finger along my cheek, and whispered, “I know you from somewhere, don’t I.” It wasn’t a question.

Keeping a firm hold on her waist, I murmured under my breath, “Better than you imagine.” Louder, I said, “Possibly, but I’d certainly like to get to know the lady who dropped into my lap.” I hoped that my invitation sounded interested and genuine rather than creepy or threatening.

She wriggled in my arms, whether to find a more comfortable perch or to make her escape was unclear. I needed her to stop moving, or I’d have a completely differently issue. Nothing to do with who she was, mind you, just the fact that any attractive woman was shifting around over my cock. (Note to self: Stop while you haven’t dug yourself a bigger hole, mate.) I, however, wasn’t about to release her without having some kind of conversation. Now that my plan to approach her had been shot all to hell, it was time for some hasty improvisation.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

I was just a bit taken aback by her offer. “For saving my arse from a collision with the floor,” she added as unnecessary explanation. Her diction wasn’t exactly crisp, but it appeared that she wasn’t quite as drunk as I’d assumed.

It would keep her here for a couple of minutes, I thought, and give me time to engineer a way to remove us – together – to a location where we could… have a little chat. “Of course, as long as you’ll join me,” I replied, offering her what I hoped was my best friendly smile. Seduction probably wouldn’t have been the best choice for either of us at that moment.

She made no move to stand as she hailed the bartender and ordered a refresh for my drink and a Vodka Collins for herself. Fishing a crumpled ten pound note out of the pocket of her skin-tight black jeans, she paid the man and turned back to clink her glass against mine in a toast.

“To my savior,” she said through a snicker. “What’s your name, cutie?”

Ah, the operative question. I chose to neither lie nor tell the truth. “I’m called Drew. Blackman. And you?”

“Jean. Jean Granger,” she replied. She’d hesitated briefly, but I could only speculate on the reason she’d chosen not to use her given name.

I decided to push the issue a bit. “Nice name, but it seems rather… simple for a lady who appears to be rather… complicated.”

She snorted, giving truth to her lack of full sobriety. “And how would you have any idea how ‘complicated’ I am?” She’d emphasized the word dramatically, stopping just short of using air quotes. “Although, you’re probably right, and you’re definitely not wrong.” She wore a pensive expression for a moment, but it passed as she took a deep sip from her drink. She’d also not made a move to leave my lap, but the lack of any other seating nearby was probably at least somewhat to blame.

It was my turn to scoff. “Lady, ‘complicated’ has a way of finding me. So, what am I not wrong about?”

She paused before answering, clearly weighing how much she was going to say. I realized even then what a deep disadvantage she had in our first interaction. I knew the answers to many of the questions I posed to her, but at that moment, she had no idea who I was. The Slytherin in me was operating at peak efficiency.

“I grew up using another name, but that life is gone now, so I’m keeping things simple. Good booze, better drugs, a little fucking when I feel like it. Doesn’t get much simpler.” She shrugged. “So what’s your story, Drew? Do you like it simple, too? Or do you stick around when ‘complicated’ comes calling?”

I swallowed a long pull on my Scotch. “Either way works for me. The simple things keep me going, but the complicated stuff makes it worth staying alive.”

Taking a deep breath, she took a plunge that I wasn’t expecting. “So, you interested in keeping things simple tonight?”

Well, now. I had the perfect opening to exploit, but I’d be disappointing her at some point in the evening. There was no way that I was going to get high or stinking drunk with Hermione Granger that night, and a snowball’s chance in hell that I was going to fuck her. Once she knew what I was planning to reveal to her, I was pretty certain her offer would be rescinded.

“Yeah. I’ve got someplace we can go.” I took her by the hand and led her out of the bar, and for the first time in nine months, a woman would see the inside of my sorry excuse for a flat.


	11. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A moment we've all been awaiting...

I will always count the ensuing hours as among the most bizarre and significant of my life. The logistics alone created one of the more challenging puzzles I’d encountered in months. I was technically prohibited from having “overnight” guests in my room, but I thought that the likelihood she’d stay more than an hour – at best – once I revealed myself to her was pretty slim. Still, I preferred to try to get her into the room unseen so that whatever options might be required were still open. As we walked the eight blocks from the bar to my rooming house, I debated the wisdom of casting a Disillusionment spell over her. She’d, obviously, immediately know that I was someone other than whom I claimed to be and that might spook her, send her running, before we even had the chance to speak. I didn’t want to risk that if it could possibly be avoided.

A second option was to cast a Confundus spell on whichever brother was attending the desk that night. That was also not terribly desirable; the last thing I needed was some Ministry hack investigating a spells-against-Muggles claim.

As it was, I was supremely lucky and, as was not atypical, the brother-on-duty was actually asleep on the job. Just to be on the safe side, I’d tucked her in under my arm and just strolled by the desk. I’m not an especially big guy – maybe 5’10” and 165 pounds – but she was relatively petite, though certainly not tiny. I’d guess 5’5” and in the neighborhood of 120. Any attempt at subterfuge was wholly unnecessary, as the wraith-thin man was snoring loud enough to wake the dead.

While we trudged up the three flights of stairs – the lift was out of order, again – I thought about the condition of the room to which I’d invited her. As fastidious as I’d been as a child and young teen, many of those habits had fallen by the wayside, right along with my sobriety. There was nothing to be done for it then; I hoped that she was tipsy enough to overlook the untidiness and ignore any untoward… aromas. I recall thinking that I wasn’t out to impress the bint, I just needed to have her alone for a short while to discover what in Merlin’s name was going on in the world I’d left behind. I even had myself momentarily convinced that the questions I had about what had brought her so low were merely idle curiosity. If I had an opportunity to cast a quick air-freshening spell or flick the covers over the bed, I’d afford her that courtesy. Once I’d revealed myself, well, all bets were off, anyway.

We arrived at my door and I belatedly remembered that I’d cast my usual security charms and wards. I groaned softly at my oversight, to which she responded with an inquisitive glance. I made a show of patting my pockets, as though looking for my key. That gave me the opportunity to grasp my “biro” and mutter a quick “Finite” under my breath. I hoped that it would be enough to clear all of the wards that I’d cast. I then produced the key and unlocked the feeble mechanism in the door handle.

Pushing the door open, I waved a hand to indicate that she should proceed, and I followed her into the room, flipping on the light switch on my right.

The room was, as expected, revealed to be less than tidy, but not quite as disgusting as I’d feared. I apparently had thrown the spread over the sheets and there weren’t any dirty dishes hanging around. I kicked a pair or two of boxers and socks under the bed as she turned to take in her surroundings.

“Charming,” she quipped, wrinkling her nose slightly.

“Yeah, sorry. Not much of a housekeeper,” I apologized. “Have a seat and make yourself comfortable,” I offered, indicating the armchair against the far wall. I stood there, glancing between her and the bed, running my hand through my hair nervously. A real moment of truth was approaching, and I honestly had no idea how to begin.

“So, Drew, how simple is this going to be?” she prompted, with a ghost of a smirk and a pointed glimpse at the bed.

I cleared my throat and sat down in a spot that would have made it difficult for her to simply dash past me and leave. The war veteran that she was, it was clear that she noticed and wasn’t terribly comfortable with it.

“What’s the deal?” she accused.

“There’s something I need to talk with you about, and it probably won’t make you happy.” I paused for a moment and made a request. “I’m not going to do anything to keep you here if you want to go, but I’d really appreciate it if you’d hear me out.”

I noticed that she’d moved a hand to the right pocket of her skin-tight jeans, but I didn’t see anything that resembled even a transfigured wand. Maybe it was force of habit. She watched me warily, but nodded her assent.

“What’s on your mind?” The flirtatious and friendly tone was gone, I noted.

“First, I’m not who I said I was. In fact, I know you and you know me. Before I tell you who I am and how I know you, I want to repeat that I have no intention of hurting you or keeping you here.”

She nodded, staring at me with a mixture of trepidation and anger, and taking in my features more closely in an apparent effort to find any shred of recognition.

I pulled my wand out of my pocket, transfiguring it back to its original form, and showed it to her. “I’m a wizard, and I know you’re a witch. Brightest of her age, in fact. I’m going to cast a Silencio so that we can speak privately, and you can yell at me all you like. I’ll also drop my Glamours. I promise I mean you no harm; I just want to talk. Okay?” I paused for a second as she nodded, then I thought to ask, “Do you have your wand?”

“That life is over,” she answered in a growl. Whatever had happened, she was clearly bitter about it. “Who are you and what do you want with me?”

I cast the Silencio I’d promised and expelled a breath through my nose. As I dropped the Glamours, she gasped.

“But, but… they said you were dead!”

“No, I’m really not,” I answered wryly. “It doesn’t surprise or disappointment me that people might think so, though.”

She looked confused, although it was apparent that any buzz she’d had was long gone. “After the final battle, no one could find you. Your parents were frantic. They searched for weeks, had posters up all over Hogsmeade and Diagon Alley, took ads out in the Daily Prophet, and even in the Quibbler. There were eight bodies found in the rubble of the castle, and it was assumed that you were one of them.”

“They couldn’t tell?” I prompted.

“No, they were all burned beyond recognition. There’s nothing like DNA analysis in the wizarding world, and the bodies were damaged enough that magical core samples were inconclusive, so it was an educated guess. You were one of the eight people reported missing, and there were eight bodies.”

“Well, someone bought it who wasn’t reported, then. As you can see, I’m very much alive,” I argued.

“No offense, Malfoy, but you look like crap. Almost as bad as me, I’d venture. I know why I’m in such shit shape, but what the hell happened to you?”

I shifted in agitation. I wanted information from her, not to be the subject of her interrogation. “I’ll answer your questions after you’ve answered mine,” I replied, pulling my legs up onto the bed.

“Since you apparently have me at a slight disadvantage, I don’t have much choice but to agree with your terms.”

“I told you, I’m not keeping you here against your will. You’re free to go.”

She shrugged. “Maybe I’m a bit curious, too.”

“Fine.” Once we’d reached that agreement, I almost didn’t know where to begin, but she had given me one clue, and that’s where I chose to start.

“You said my parents were looking for me. I take it that they survived?”

“Yes, although things weren’t looking too good for them when I… left.”

“How so?”

“Trials. Dozens of them. They were both on the list, placed under house arrest a couple of months ago until their court dates. No more room at Azkaban.”

“I see.”

“Don’t you even want to know which side won?” she taunted.

“Your presence here seems to indicate that the Dark side was victorious,” I guessed, realizing as I spoke that my parents’ incarceration pointed to the opposite conclusion. I was immensely confused.

“Au contraire. Voldemort was killed by Harry and most of the Death Eaters were either killed or captured,” she told me.

“Why did you leave, then? Your side won; you would have been treated like one of the conquering heroes that you were.”

She chuckled darkly. “One would think.” She took a shuddering breath. “Didn’t quite work out that way.”

“So…” I prompted.

“I have no intention of talking about that. Your curiosity will have to go unsatisfied, I’m afraid,” she answered, a harsh edge to her tone.

“Fine. I’ll respect your privacy,” I said, but the unspoken “for the moment” was almost certainly understood. “What else can you tell me about what happened?”

Her responding sigh was deep and lingering. “Why did you leave?”

It shouldn’t have surprised me that she didn’t immediately answer my question. “You’re the smartest person I know. Why do you think?” The sarcastic edge to my retort was as sharp as it had ever been.

She leaned forward in the chair and rested her elbows on her knees. “There were rumors, but I didn’t believe them.”

“From who? About what?” I pressed.

“That you were… reluctant sometimes. That you took care of the little ones when you could.”

I shrugged. “Crucio seemed a bit extreme for the crime of failing to finish one’s breakfast.”

She was chewing her lip and bouncing her heel up and down, barely paying attention to what I was saying. Her eyes were darting around the room and I wondered if she were considering a quick departure. Another moment or two of her fidgeting, and I began to understand. She confirmed my suspicion with a plea that sounded rather desperate.

“Do you, uh, have anything?”

Of course I did. I snorted a laugh. “What’s your pleasure?”

“Anything. I need… Anything will be fine.”

I’m not sure when I’d ever heard as much need from a person. I got up from the bed and opened the closet door, retrieving a pouch from my duffle. I’d learned enough about drugs from my own experience that it was pretty clear she wanted something a little harder than molly. It wouldn’t have shocked me in that moment to know that she’d been taking heroin. I’d sampled it, but generally stuck to things slightly less hard-core. The best I could give her was coke, and I tossed her a little plastic packet.

She pulled a small compact out of her back pocket and, like a pro, set up a couple of lines on the mirror. She snorted one and offered me the other.

I shook my head. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea, Granger,” I demurred.

“Why not?” The brightness that had already returned to her voice was absolutely remarkable.

“Because I get extremely… aroused when I take coke,” I explained, looking at her pointedly.

“So? I’d fuck you.” The way she said it was so blasé that it shook even a slag like me.

I laughed. “You say that now, but we both know that’s probably not a good idea.”

She shrugged. “Suit yourself. Just tug it in the bathroom, if you want,” she said, extending the mirror toward me again.

I nearly choked on my own saliva.

“Geez, Malfoy. You were willing to fuck me an hour ago. When’d you become the prude?” She giggled, but it wasn’t girlish.

I cleared my throat. “Well, it wasn’t so much that I wanted to fuck you as to talk to you,” I explained.

“Yeah, the Mudblood still isn’t good enough,” she mumbled.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Granger, it has nothing to do with being a Muggle-born or not being good enough. I’ve been fucking no one but Muggles for months, and I have no problem with it. This is about our history, and the fact that you’d regret it ten minutes after we were done.”

Another sigh. “You’re probably right, but now I’ve got a problem.”

I lifted my brow in question.

“You’re not the only one who has that reaction to coke,” she expounded.

I nodded in simple acknowledgment. “Sorry, but I don’t think I’m the bloke to help you.”

She approached me then, sidling up close and running her hand over my crotch. I’m a bloke, you know, and my damned penis decided to respond of its own accord. “You know you want to,” she whispered in my ear, getting more aggressive in her handling of my cock. “Do a line and fuck me.”

She was making it very difficult to refuse her. I was itching for a high, though not quite as desperate as she’d been, and she’d worked me up exceedingly well. I allowed myself to indulge for a moment in the feeling of her fingers grasping my erection through my trousers and nearly talked myself into believing that one fuck between two consenting adults wouldn’t have any consequences. Then, I considered what I still hadn’t learned from her and what I still wanted to know. We’d not even scratched the surface. If I refused her, though, she might leave and never agree to talk with me again. I had a real dilemma.

I grasped her wrist gently and removed her hand from my cock. “Granger, no,” I said, hoping that my tone was as kind and thoughtful as I’d intended it to be. “Maybe another time, but not now.” I hoped that might placate her.

Her glare could have bored holes in my skull. She tugged her arm out of my grip and made to move around me to leave. For all my promises to let her go whenever she wished, I blocked her path.

“Where are you going?”

“To find a partner who’s a bit more accommodating,” she seethed.

Well, now I understood why I’d found her in the situation from which I’d extricated her a few weeks earlier. The bird really was fearless, if not immensely stupid. She was asking for trouble, and then some.

I sighed. “Don’t go.” I remember thinking that I had to come up with some way to keep her from leaving. If it meant that I’d jeopardize my ability to get all the information I wanted, so be it. I couldn’t let her go out there in her condition. I rationalized that I was protecting her. The reality was that I wanted to take that hit of coke and I wanted to get laid. I figured that my months-earlier promise not to fuck anyone who hadn’t consented was intact. She had, after all, propositioned me at the bar, while both of us were as sober as either of us were likely to be. I reached for the mirror that she’d set on the bed and snorted the line.

By the time I’d tossed the mirror onto the nightstand, she was down to her bra and knickers and perched on the bed. As certain as I was that we’d both regret this later, this was the first time in nearly a year that I was getting intimate with someone that I actually knew. I was as ready as ever to have it off, but there was an undercurrent of familiarity that made this feel very different. By the time I’d stripped off everything but my pants, she was wriggling out of her knickers and unclasping her bra. They both landed on the opposite side of the bed as she carelessly tossed them away.

I recall so clearly that first time that I really looked at her in all her naked glory. She was thin, but so was I. The drugs, they do that to your body, but not in a good way. I was so high, though, that she looked like a goddess to me. Perfect in every way, at least in part because she knew my name. I relished the thought that I might actually hear it from a woman’s lips that night. I kept telling myself that this wasn’t a moment of weakness; it was to keep her safe and to protect my source of information. I knew, deep down, that it was only a tiny fraction of the truth. She was a connection to all that I’d lost, all that I’d left behind, and I wanted to bury myself in her to find the link to all that I was missing.

The thing that stands out most in my memory of that episode was that I kissed her – devoured her – and that wasn’t something I did often or easily with the birds I fucked. It always seemed too personal. That’s not to say that I never kissed them, but it wasn’t central to our couplings. Very different with Granger. We kissed before, during, and after. Some of the details have been lost to me, not because they weren’t memorable, but because I was so focused on the joining of our mouths and tongues that the fusing of our genitals seemed… secondary. The fact that I could be Draco Malfoy for a couple of hours, use my magic, hear a familiar voice, make a connection that was even in the smallest measure beyond physical was… precious. It was dangerous and insane on levels that I didn’t even want to contemplate, and there was still far too much of the unknown from the world we’d both abandoned – or which had abandoned us - but for those moments that my cock was stroking the inside of her, I felt alive again.

I know that I fell asleep with her body tucked into mine. I know that I dreamed of flying. I know that I spent the better part of the night half-hard and wanting. I know that when I awoke, she was gone.


	12. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will Draco ever learn to stay out of trouble? Does Hermione's presence make things better... or worse?

I threw the covers off and checked to see if, perhaps, she was in the shower or loo. It took me only a few seconds to register the fact that she’d left without a word. I tried to bite back the rising panic I felt that she’d disappeared into the bowels of Liverpool, never to be seen again. I’d told her it was a bad idea for us to sleep together, and as great as it had been in the moment, it appeared that her more sober self had come to the same conclusion. I recall thinking that I’d now truly gone and blown it all to hell. I’d have no chance to learn anything more about what had happened after my departure – or what had happened to her. I still wondered why that mattered, but it did.

Standing there at the foot of my bed, stark naked, I scanned the room. My next thought was to ensure that she’d not taken my wand. I know that if I’d been in her position, I certainly would have been tempted. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw it on the nightstand and gasped when I saw a note propped against the lamp. I didn’t think I had any paper in the room, so I assumed, and confirmed later with a Priori Incantatem, that she had conjured it using my wand. That fact set me on my heels for a moment; using another’s wand is about as intimate an act as a magical person can do. Then, my indignation at the intrusion caught up to my brain and I had no choice but to scoff at myself. After all, I’d spent an extended period of time with parts of me inside of parts of her just hours earlier. Intimacy, indeed. It took me a good minute to realize that I probably wanted to know what the note said. I clearly wasn’t as sober as I’d thought.

I remember how much my hand shook when I reached for the slip of paper, and I had to steady myself by sitting on the bed in order to read her neat, tight script.

Malfoy,

Thanks for, well, you know. I’ll be around.

HG

I didn’t know quite what to make of it. If I had interpreted the brief note accurately, it seemed that she hadn’t intended to disappear entirely, but she certainly hadn’t given me any information about how to contact her. I’d wanted to ask her, among so many other things, where she lived, how to reach her, how she was supporting herself, and when we could meet again – to have a more substantive conversation, of course. It seemed apparent that neither of us had been content with the information we’d gained from the other, so regardless of any other kind of satisfaction that had been achieved, there was plenty of unfinished business. As much as I feared that our assignation might have damaged my mission, it seemed that the former paragon of Gryffindor virtue had become as much of a drugged and drunken slag as I had. While I had no specific intention of ever again including sex on our agenda, Granger was one woman whom I had to see at least one more time.

Although the room was as hot as it typically was, I shivered as I stood there staring at the bed. I could practically taste her scent on my skin. Our mutual status as wizarding folk had allowed for magical rather than Muggle-style protection, and I’d taken full advantage of the opportunity. Whether it was the coke or her own sexual style, Granger was a wildcat in bed. While there hadn’t been anything particularly kinky about anything we’d done, she’d been an enthusiastic and fully committed partner. My cock started to twitch as I mentally recounted our night of carnal play. Since I wasn’t ready to shower away her scent, I fell back into the bed and stroked myself raw, grunting her name as thick waves of semen coated my belly. I must have fallen into a deep sleep because when I was next aware of my surroundings, it was nearly noon.

I remember just how reluctant I was to get out of bed, but I desperately needed to relieve myself. When I looked into the mirror after washing my hands, I shouldn’t have been surprised to see the love bites that nearly circled my neck. (I don’t need to talk about the deep, dark smudges under my eyes, do I?) I recalled teasing that she’d become a vampire since we’d last seen each other. Her respondent laugh had been guttural, and she’d crawled over my torso after whispering, “I won’t suck your blood, but…” Who would have thought that Hermione Granger would be so talented at deep-throating? That memory had me turning on the shower and using both hands in a soapy lather to approximate the way she’d made me feel. I feared then that I was in trouble in ways that I couldn’t even fathom. She was in no better shape than I was, and the possibility that we’d drag each other even further down the proverbial rabbit hole (yes, I’ve read Carroll, who undoubtedly was a wizard) was greater than I wanted to admit.

I couldn’t consider not seeing her again, though. She’d teased me with tidbits of information that had only whetted my appetite for more. The months of isolation had taken their toll, and I craved another taste of the familiar. Resisting the desire to screw her again was going to be a herculean effort, but I told myself that I had to stay strong, for both of us.

By the time I finally managed to get dressed, though, my blood was thrumming. The coke we’d snorted the night before had me itching. I’d been behaving myself reasonably well, I rationalized, so a little recreational use wouldn’t go amiss. I put a couple of tabs of molly, a packet of blow, and a wad of cash in my pocket, cast my Glamours, and headed out for an afternoon of whatever may come. I anticipated that it might be me.

During that subsequent afternoon, I purposely avoided the neighborhood where we’d met. I wanted a bit of separation to consider my next move and to replace the memories of that night with something else. In retrospect, I think I was probably more freaked out about the encounter than I’d even admitted to myself, because I was definitely on the prowl for trouble. I’d barely eaten more than a biscuit all day, so anything that made its way into my bloodstream was going to hit hard, and I think that was subconsciously deliberate.

I found one of the dingier pubs that I’d visited early in my exile – one where I’d picked up a hooker, I was nearly certain – and ordered and downed two double Scotches in quick succession. It wasn’t long before I was approached by a lady looking for a job for the evening. I was going to fuck away the unreasonably pleasant memory of my dick in Granger’s cunt if it was the last thing I ever did.

She took me to a motel that I’d visited at least a couple of times, and I paid her probably double what her normal rate was with the proviso that she’d accommodate anything I wanted for the next three hours. I knew it wasn’t smart, but I combined a hit of molly with two lines of coke, and I was flying. I’d managed to cast an augmented Engorgio on my dick during a quick visit to the loo. There’s a version of the spell that’ll keep a bloke hard for hours while allowing multiple orgasms. Wizards have such an advantage over Muggle men when it comes to the availability of sex magic. I fully intended to make maximum use.

I started by fucking her mouth, and I do mean that very literally. She was laid out on the bed and I was straddling her face, hanging on to the headboard with both hands for leverage. I didn’t hold back in any way, but I’ll give her credit – she took it like a pro, even enhancing the experience by thumbing my arse as my orgasm approached. I darn near choked her with the volume of it.

My high was still near its peak, along with my energy, so I didn’t allow her or myself to rest. I fucked her with brutal strokes, the slickness of my cock being aided by a liberal application of lube. Like most whores, she wasn’t exactly tight, but she had more than enough skill to contract her cunt around me. I know I was extremely aggressive and probably rougher with her than I’d been with anyone in a long time, but she didn’t protest when I squeezed her tits mercilessly and bit her nipples until they were red. The spell I’d used allowed me to have a release about every fifteen minutes, and I pounded her hard for the entire time. Sweat absolutely coated every inch of my skin. When I got close, I grabbed her knees and pushed them back as far as they would go, spreading her fully. My hips were a blur. I shouted a garbled stream of obscenities when I came, then collapsed on top of her from my exertions. I belatedly considered whether I’d brought enough condoms with me, because I fully intended to get off a dozen times if I could manage it.

I didn’t stop for long, though. When I felt my stamina start to wane, I snorted another line and I was as ready as I’d ever been. She seemed a bit stunned, but didn’t complain when I told her to bend over the one armchair in the room. It was high enough (and so was I) that I could take her from behind while standing. When I hadn’t yet come after seven or eight minutes of that, she asked me to stop long enough that she could put a pillow under her hips. I’m not a complete arse, so I let her. It turned out to work rather well, giving an extra inch or two of height to allow even better penetration. As a bonus, the bruising to her hips was minimized. Hey, it worked to my advantage ultimately, so why make a fuss?

For the next round, I made her do most of the work, riding me as I stretched out on the bed. As a visual enticement, I asked her to play with her own tits. When we switched positions, I had her finger herself while I finished jerking off on her chest. I was lost in a massive sexual haze from which I didn’t want to emerge for as long as I could avoid. I took another very brief break then, to have a good couple of swigs from the flask of Scotch that I’d bought along the way. I didn’t want to relinquish a single inch of the high that I’d achieved.

Although I really had little compunction to reciprocate, she crawled over me in a sixty-nine position and deep-throated my cock, taking off my condom in the process. Who was I to complain? Since I do firmly believe that everyone should enjoy the experience, I used my thumb on her clit and in her cunt until she was shaking with release. Her whimpers felt so fabulous on my shaft, I can’t even express it.

Since I had one more hit of molly left, I took it then, hoping to go out with a strong finish. It was not to be, however. It was just a little too much of a good thing and I passed out with my cock stiff as a board. The next thing I knew, I was awakening to another hand-assisted blow job that was accompanied by her thumb fairly deep in my arse, massaging my prostate. I came like a geyser.

So, one may wonder, if I was so bloody high, how did I remember this episode so clearly when there were others that had been lost to my consciousness? When I finally came back to awareness after that final orgasm, just enough of my high had worn off that I actually looked at the woman I’d been fucking for the last couple of hours. No, she wasn’t Granger, but she could have been her sister. Hair just slightly longer and a shade darker, similar whiskey-colored eyes, maybe a little rounder in the hips, but another one of those doppelgangers whom I’d sworn to avoid long before I’d had sex with the former Gryffindor princess. How the hell had I allowed that to happen? The event was, thus, seared in my memory and I had but one more thought before I lost consciousness for the night: Fuck. Me.

It was a good few hours later that I managed to find enough energy to drag on my clothes and stagger back to my rooming house. I stripped off immediately and took a shower with the hottest water I could stand. My cock had no intention of standing up (one of the brief side effects once that spell wears off), and it was the first time in recent memory that I didn’t jack off in the shower. I’d stayed relatively sober for weeks, when I’d had a purpose on which to focus. One night, and it’d all gone to hell. Was I really so weak that one emotionally taxing encounter would send me reeling? I questioned whether she’d dragged me down or if I’d simply used the excuse to do what I would have done on my own under any other kind of stress.

There was a small part of me that recognized that I had to take responsibility for my own behavior and my own reactions. There was another that realized that there are some people who aren’t meant to be healthy influences. Could I find a way to get what I needed from Granger without allowing myself to fall fully back into the heavy self-medicating that I’d tried to leave behind when I’d thought I’d had something worth doing? Did I have the emotional strength to resist the powerful lure of another accelerating spiral of drugs, booze, and sex? What about her? Did I have any desire or responsibility to pull her up from the gutter that she occupied, or would I just leave her to her fate once I had what I needed? I didn’t know the answers to any of those questions, and I wasn’t sure in that moment if I cared.

I crawled into the bed – which still reeked of the remnants of our activities two nights before – and stared at the ceiling for better than an hour before finally dropping off into a fitful sleep.

An insistent banging on my door woke me some number of hours later. I was groggy, and a bit hung over (though I’d had mornings which had been far worse – the one minor advantage to some drugs over most alcohol), and I’d never had a visitor other than Granger, whom I’d escorted to the door. I scrubbed my hands over my face in an effort to achieve some level of awareness when the door opened.

I blearily stared at Hermione Granger, who’d apparently, if the hairpin in her hand was any evidence, picked my lock, such as it was. I surmised that I’d been too high the previous night to remember to cast my wards. She stared right back, focusing on my naked and very erect morning wood.

“So, Malfoy, up for some fun?” she taunted, wearing a smirk that was worthy of me in my snarkiest prime. 

This was a development for which I was completely unprepared and out of my depth. Other than her tenaciousness, wariness, curiosity, and general appearance (okay, I acknowledge that’s not a small list), this was not the Hermione Granger I’d known at Hogwarts. Breaking and entering? Extreme sexual forwardness? Taking charge? Were these things part of her personality to which I’d not been exposed in our youth? When I thought back, there had been rumors about the exploits of the Gryffindor Trio, but I’d always put them down as grossly exaggerated. The one element which I felt quite confident was new to her repertoire was the substance abuse. There’d been nary a hint of anything stronger than butterbeer having been consumed by that crew, unlike the rather frequent imbibing that went on in the Slytherin common room. It was the only thing that kept me sane during that fiasco of my seventh year. At least, that’s what I continued to tell myself.

It took me a few seconds to realize that while I was mulling over what seemed to be her uncharacteristic behavior, I’d still not uttered a word, and she’d invited herself into the room, making herself comfortable on the opposite side of my bed. When I got a better look at her eyes, I deduced that she was high. And horny. Before I could react, she’d helped herself to what seemed to be a rather tasty treat, if her enthusiasm in attacking my erection were to be characterized. She was so good at it that I was tempted to let her continue, but there were more important issues. I grasped her shoulders and pushed her away gently, trying not to be a prick about it.

“Granger, no,” I murmured, getting up from the bed and heading to the bathroom, where I quickly finished the job she’d started and emptied my bladder. I grabbed a pair of boxers from the laundry pile and pulled them on before rejoining her in the bedroom.

She was sitting in the middle of the bed with her legs stretched out in front of her, her expression flitting between bewilderment, frustration, and anger. One would think that I’d taken away the girl’s favorite toy. With my head as foggy as it still was, I had some difficulty making calculating decisions. Should I sit beside her or keep my distance? Should I allow her to explain herself or confront her over her intrusion? We were headed for some unknown destination, it seemed, and it was just as likely that it would be the death of both of us as anything else.

“What are you doing here, Granger?” was the question upon which I settled.

The impish grin and quirked brow were not things I’d ever associated with this woman.

“I thought it was fairly obvious,” she intoned.

I scratched at my scalp; Merlin, did I need a shower! “As, uh, flattering as that may be, Granger, I’m not your sex toy. We barely know each other,” I maintained.

To that, she laughed heartily. “Could have fooled me. I thought we managed to get to know each other pretty well a couple of nights ago.”

Although she wasn’t entirely wrong, I couldn’t encourage her. This wouldn’t get us anywhere. “It was a one-off, Granger. It’ll never happen again. A moment of weakness for both of us.”

She pushed to the edge of the bed to stand. “Then I guess there’s no reason for me to stick around. I’m sure I’ll have no trouble find…”

“Wait.” I covered my eyes with my hand and groaned, reaching out to capture her wrist. “Granger, you’re going to get yourself killed if you keep this shit up. I’ll buy you a fucking vibrator, for fuck’s sake.”

“Why would you care, Malfoy?” she spat back at me. “I’m just looking for some fun. I haven’t had any difficulty finding it.”

“Yeah, I know, and a good spot of trouble along with it,” I growled at her. “In case you don’t remember, I had to rescue your sorry arse from two blokes who were ready to have plenty of ‘fun’ that included a knife at your neck.”

She gasped at that, her eyes wide. “That was… you?”

“Yeah, well, it was me, Drew, but yes,” I reluctantly admitted.

She lost a bit of steam then and sat heavily on the edge of the mattress. She stared at her fidgeting fingers and murmured an answer. “I, uh, think I was a bit… out of my depth that night.”

“You were so fucking high that I’m not sure you even registered that someone had come to your aid. You didn’t even look at me before you staggered away,” I said, the scolding evident in my tone. (Like I was one to talk.)

“I suppose I should thank you, then,” she answered, stiffening her spine and trying desperately to gather some dignity.

“Staying out of situations like that would be the thanks I’d rather see. We’re not friends. Fuck, I barely know you. But I know enough of you to recognize that you’re at least as fucked up as I am, and that’s a pretty ugly prospect.” I sighed and rested my forehead in my palms. “What are we doing here, Granger? Are we going to help each other or kill each other?”

When she simply shrugged in reply, I knew we could both be in deep, deep shit.


	13. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Important revelations are shared in this installment.

I wavered between being harsh or supportive as she sat there with wide, watery eyes. There was so much damage from the war and its aftermath; both of us had suffered, but the worst of the punishments, as far as I knew then, appeared to be primarily self-inflicted. I could see that she was hurting, but she hadn't been forthcoming with any information that allowed me to understand why she was so spectacularly broken. It was also unclear what she wanted from me. I saw a few possibilities, some of them not dissimilar from my own reasons for seeking her out.

The lure of a familiar face could not be discounted. If she'd been out here as long as I had, and the timings of my earliest sightings seems to indicate that she'd come to Liverpool only six or seven weeks after I had, there was no doubt in my mind that loneliness and isolation had begun to take their toll. That familiarity could have also equated to a modicum of protection; although she hadn't known it before today, I'd already done that for her once. Since she'd also come to the conclusion that I was abusing substances on a par with her own situation, it was not unlikely that she saw me as a "partner in crime" who would be a slightly less dangerous option than the strangers to whom she'd been turning to enable her with whatever needs arose.

Whatever the background was, I believed that we needed to start sharing information and being honest with each other. That wasn't going to be easy; there was almost no trust between us, regardless of the fact that we'd swapped bodily fluids. I reminded myself that it had been a mutually advantageous hook-up, nothing more. One of us would need to break the impasse or we'd be caught up in the destructive spiral that threatened each of us. So, regardless of what I'd been taught in my brief and undistinguished career as a Death Eater, I decided that something my mother had once told me was probably a better course of action. Her advice? One gathers more flies with honey than with vinegar. I interpreted that to mean that, in this scenario, I needed to give her what she wanted and needed – whatever that might be – if I hoped to have any reciprocation. This thought process took about two seconds to germinate while she sat there on my bed.

With a long-suffering sigh, I asked, "Granger, what is it that you need from me?"

Her breath hitched and she gazed at me hopefully. "I hurt all over, Malfoy. I just want to stop hurting. Please, make me feel good again."

I pursed my lips briefly, but tried not to appear annoyed with her. "You're going to need to be a bit more specific, Granger. I'm not about to use Legilimency on you in this condition." I'd always heard that it was dangerous to invade the mind of someone who was under the influence of mind-altering potions or narcotics, not so much for them, but for the spell-caster. It could fuck with your sense of reality, and mine was sufficiently twisted already.

It was then that I noticed she was trembling like a willow in the wind. Whether it was instinct or conscious decision, I haven't any idea, but I found myself wrapping my arms around her. Just to control the shaking, I reasoned. It didn't take more than a few moments for her to calm, her breathing becoming steadier and less shallow. Could it really have been that simple? Did she just need the comfort of an embrace? If only it had been that easy, I reflect from this vantage point.

She didn't directly ask for anything else from me, so I just sat there, my arms wrapped fully around her, rocking back and forth gently. Her breathing slowed further, and she let loose a long, shuddering sigh. While it hadn't been immediately obvious, I deduced that she'd been crying. Comforting weeping women wasn't exactly in my wheelhouse, but I'd witnessed my mother's lamentations often enough that I knew that sometimes the best thing to do was to offer silent, unconditional support. What I knew unequivocally was that, if she didn't share with me what was bothering her, it was the only kind of help I could provide. I knew as certainly as I knew my own name that it wouldn't be enough to fix whatever problems had been haunting her.

At some point, I realized that she'd fallen asleep and I'd eased us back onto the bed with her still encased in my arms. I stared at the ceiling while she dozed, but I didn't relinquish my hold. It wouldn't have surprised me to know that she'd not been getting much sleep; only the wide range of stimulants she'd been taking had been keeping her going. Eventually, I joined her in slumber.

It couldn't have been terribly long – maybe an hour – when I felt her shifting restlessly beside me. She had awakened and whatever brief respite she had found was now lost. She got up from the bed and paced the room, muttering to herself. It sounded purposeful, though, as if she were working out a problem. Her words were not meant for me, however, and when she noticed that I'd also awakened, she stopped short, regarding me with wariness.

"What?" I prompted, my voice sounding thick and gruff.

She shook her head in rejection of my question.

"Come on, Granger, I don't cuddle up with just anyone. What's going on?" I persisted.

"I don't … I don't feel as horrible when I'm next to you," she explained. That was as far as she was willing to go, but I could tell that she was leaving something unspoken.

I was tempted to make a flip comment, but I held my tongue. Instinct told me to wait, to listen, to observe.

It took nearly ten minutes, which is a long time to be silent in a room with someone when there's clearly something that needs to be said. I noticed that it began with her hands. The trembling was minimal at first, but it seemed to gain momentum and intensity as the seconds ticked on, spreading to other parts of her body. I assumed that it was withdrawal. "Do you need something, Granger?" I asked her quietly, gently. I didn't want to give her drugs, but I didn't want to see her suffer, either. I also recognized that I needed her to make her own decisions.

"It always comes back, no matter what I do," she whispered. "The drugs, the sex… they make it stop."

"Tell me about it," I scoffed. "The chicken or the egg, Granger?"

"I have no idea. It's driving me insane."

I remember simply watching her for a few moments before I repeated my question. "Do you need something?"

She nodded, but that wasn't good enough for me. I needed her to tell me what it was that she needed.

"Words, Granger. I seem to recall you were pretty good with them."

"My blood is itching. I need it to stop. Either drugs or sex make it stop." Her agitation was increasing at a rapid rate.

She was trying to put the decision back in my lap, and I was having none of it. I'd decided hours earlier that I'd be flexible in order to get what I needed from our association, but that was only part of the equation. Those protective instincts that had been prodding at my conscience had not diminished; if anything, they'd grown as I watched her struggle. I considered what would happen if I made the decision for her. If we had sex again, both of us got something out of it. If I gave her drugs, she'd said, and I knew only too well, that high levels of arousal followed quickly. If I took a hit along with her, we'd both be lost in that haze. Maybe, I recall thinking, it'd be easier just to skip the chemicals and go straight to the sex. The drugs weren't doing either of us any favors, but I seriously wondered whether she could comprehend that. Again, though, I needed her to make her own decisions.

"I'll help you, Granger, but you need to decide how."

My heart sank when her eyes flicked toward my closet. I'm still not entirely sure why. I'm sure that my expression was less than warm when I pushed off the bed to retrieve my stash. Now I had a decision to make. Would I join her in getting high? The idea had my stomach in knots and my dick twitching. I was so fucking weak.

I didn't have much left in my kit. Two packets of blow, three tablets of molly, and a yellow jacket. I'd not replenished in a while, and there was part of me that simply didn't want to do that. I also didn't want to become her personal pharmacy for any number of reasons, diminishing funds not the least of them. I took one of the packets of coke and tossed it to her.

The look of relief that washed over her was stunning. That alone told me that she was in far deeper shit than I was. I may have been weak, but I was able to stop for a few days when my attention was diverted to other things. That didn't seem to be the case with her. She appeared to be at a much higher state of true chemical addiction, and that could complicate things immensely.

I watched as she deliberately set up four lines, two for each of us. She did two right away, then handed me the square mirror. I snorted one line, leaving the other behind. One was enough to get me going, and I'd take the other later if I felt the need. I waited maybe fifteen seconds for the full effect to kick in, and it didn't even take that long for my dick to stand at attention.

"Do you want to fuck me?"

I've said a dozen times that I like forward birds, but it was still a shock to my system to hear that question from Hermione Granger's lips. I nodded in response, regardless of any perceived tilt to the universe, and stripped off my boxers while she began to get undressed. I reclined on the bed and stroked my cock idly while she eagerly removed each item of clothing.

She decided to be more the aggressor and took my penis into her mouth, wetting it thoroughly with her tongue. She didn't keep at it for very long, though, moving to straddle me instead, sliding down onto my shaft. While she seemed content to ride me, that wasn't enough for me by that point. Coke makes me want to move, so I first used the excess energy to thrust sharply beneath her. That was nice, but again, not enough. I lifted her off my lap and turned her over, entering her from behind as I grabbed her hips to create a counterpoint to my thrusts. There was nothing gentle about our fuck this time around. I don't think I kissed her once. It was all about my cock in her cunt, deep, fast, and intense. I pride myself on my sexual stamina, but I came a bit faster than usual and she hadn't reached her peak yet. I flipped her over and tongued her thoroughly until her thighs squeezed around my ears.

While I was pretty wiped out, she was still soaring. It seemed that she really loved to suck cock, because her mouth was on me again, coaxing another erection from my spent organ. This time, though, she wouldn't relinquish her toy and I came in her mouth after a several minutes of truly talented fellatio. I was gentleman enough to use my fingers to make sure she got off again.

Whether it was the coke or the sex, her trembling had stopped and she finally seemed peaceful. She rested her head on my chest and we slept. When I woke up, she was gone, and so was the fourth line of coke.

This time, I didn't panic. I knew she'd be back.

I summoned enough ambition on the following morning to finally go out and buy some food to restock my bare cupboards. I found myself buying more than I typically did and credited the possibility that I'd have a guest now and then as the reason. When I returned from my errands, which, for once, didn't include resupplying my liquor cabinet with enough booze to drown a Thestral, I spent a little time actually tidying up the place. I guess there was a little pride left in me. Then, I waited.

She didn't make an appearance the next day, or the one after that, but I heard the knock on my door late in the afternoon of the third day. Her demeanor was subdued and she hesitated when I stepped aside to let her in.

"Hi."

I scratched the back of my neck in a nervous gesture. "What can I do for you, Granger?"

"Hermione. Please. We've had sex twice. I think that puts us on a first name basis," she said flatly.

"Okay. What can I do for you, Hermione?" No skin off my nose. I guessed accurately, based on her reaction, that she expected a reciprocal invitation. I hadn't used my given name in so long that it felt as odd to say it as it did to hear it. "It's Draco, then."

She nodded mechanically and stepped past me into the room. Avoiding the bed, she dragged the armchair further into whatever open space there was. I surmised that it felt slightly less claustrophobic, safer. She took off her coat and toss it over the back of the chair.

I waited patiently while she got comfortable before asking my question a third time. "What are you doing here, Hermione?"

"I need to talk. There are things going on that I don't fully understand, and I thought you might be able to help me figure it out." Her tone was as neutral as I've ever heard, but her eyes told a very different story.

I nodded, both to acknowledge and encourage. This seemed to be an opportunity to gather some information, so I decided to let her talk. When it made sense, I'd toss in a question or two.

She released another one of those deep, shuddering breaths – gods, she did that a lot – and looked up at me. I suppose that I might have been slightly intimidating, standing there, leaning against the door jamb with my arms crossed and my mouth drawn into a frown. I didn't mean to be, but I also felt it was important to keep a physical distance. I dropped my arms and perched my rear end against the bureau, crossing my legs at the ankles. That seemed to do the trick, because I saw her shoulders drop into a more relaxed posture.

"I'm… not ready to share everything with you, Draco. It's too painful and humiliating for me to speak aloud, but I need to give you the general gist of things."

"I'm listening. Just tell me what you're comfortable with, and we'll figure it out from there."

She twisted her hands together, dropping eye contact to stare at them. "I was betrayed, and as a result, I've been banished from the magical world. They took my wand, but left my magic."

I swear that I tried to avoid it, but I couldn't help the gasp that escaped. That was… barbaric. No wonder she'd been seeking the comfort of drugs and sex. She hadn't been speaking metaphorically at all when she'd said a few days earlier that her blood was itching. That would have been a massive understatement. The pain wouldn't have been at the level of a Cruciatus curse, but not terribly far behind. The constancy of it would have driven most people mad long before now. I imagined that the drugs and the orgasms were just scratching the surface – keeping the very worst of it at bay.

"Hermione, I'm so sorry," I choked out. "You should have told me earlier." As annoyed as I was at her for keeping this secret, I was equally angry with myself for not pressing her for an explanation sooner, and for not noticing the symptoms of magical core corruption. It wasn't something that anyone saw very often, but any wizard worth his salt should be able to recognize such a serious affliction.

"Not your fault, and not your responsibility," she replied with a defeated shrug. "They didn't explain that there would be side effects, so this was all a shock to me. I didn't really even put two and two together until a few days ago. I mean, Hagrid didn't have a wand and he was fine, so this doesn't make a lot of sense to me. It's been building over time, and I just can't keep up anymore."

"That's because Hagrid was always surrounded by magic. You've been without it for months. So, the drugs, the sex – they were helping for a while?" I postulated, watching as understanding settled over her features.

She nodded. "It only took a little at the beginning, but it's gotten progressively harder to keep up with the pain. I'm scared, Draco."

I may have looked and sounded stern, but I was determined. "Come here," I ordered.

She seemed to register that I brooked no arguments and she complied immediately. She relaxed instantly when I wrapped my arms around her.

"This is not necessarily emotional comfort, Granger, but that's fine, too. You need to feel my magic," I explained.

"Hermione," she corrected, mumbling against my chest. "I was wondering why I felt so much better when we were together."

"My magical core is helping to stabilize yours," I expounded. "But, obviously, we can't stay connected like this day and night. We need to bleed off some of your latent energy."

"How do I do that?" she wondered.

"Have you tried wandless magic?" I asked.

I could feel her shaking her head in the negative against me.

"No, whatever they did prevents me from doing that. I was never very good with it, anyway," she added.

"You used my wand a few days ago. How did that feel?"

She looked up at me, surprised. "How did you know?"

"You conjured the paper. Priori incantatum."

"Oh, of course." She had the grace to wear a slightly sheepish expression. "It felt… amazing. For about ten seconds, I was tempted…"

"It's okay. I understand. Until we can figure out how to get you a black-market wand or get one outside of Great Britain, you'll need to borrow mine at least once a day. And, uh, the physical contact should also continue."

"Are you propositioning me, Draco?" she accused, but it was clear she was teasing.

"It doesn't have to be sex, Hermione. Cuddling up for an hour or so would be sufficient to take the edge off," I retorted. "Although it is true that skin-to-skin contact would be more therapeutic."

She looked at me incredulously, pulling just slightly out of my embrace. "So, how much of that is your professional opinion, Healer Malfoy, and how much is looking to get your rocks off?"

"Look, if you want to have sex, I'm not going to refuse you, but I thought you'd prefer to keep it a bit less intimate. I'll follow your lead. In all seriousness, though, there's a reason you were craving sex. Orgasms release magical energy for wizarding folk. I've been told – though there's obviously no way for me to know for certain – that our orgasms are about thirty percent more intense than Muggles'. How they tested that, I have no idea."

"Let's just, uh, play that by ear," she suggested. To my mind, it seemed like as good a strategy as any. "I'm no more a prude than you are, and it'd solve a decent handful of problems, but if and when we consider getting physical again should be a mutual decision at the time it comes up. So to speak." She laughed briefly at her apparently unintended double entendre.

I've no idea why, but I was compelled to kiss the top of her head, so I did. "Are you okay?"

She wrapped her arms around me a bit tighter. "Better than I've felt in months."

How I wish that could have lasted.


	14. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione faces a crisis and turns to Draco in her moment of need.

I thought that she would keep her promise to visit once a day, cast a spell or two with my wand, and hug it out (or whatever) for an hour or two. She’d seemed so relieved and hopeful when she’d left. Although I wished she’d told me more about how she’d been betrayed and why it had led to her banishment, I was grateful that she’d trusted me with as much as she had. It had made me feel that some trust in her wouldn’t be entirely misplaced. Now, I wasn’t so sure. I’d not heard from her in three days, and I was getting… concerned.

After our conversation, I took some time to think about our situations. I’d been screwing around and getting high to escape my psychological misery, and it had been marginally successful to the extent that I didn’t think about my various issues while I was high, drunk, or in the midst of an orgasm. Her reasons for the same behavior were, to my mind, slightly more concrete in that she had a physical ailment she was trying to relieve. Unfortunately, it also seemed that she’d taken things further and was bordering on – if not over – the line from abuse to addiction. Looking at my own behavior in that context, I recognized that I had been behaving like the spoiled brat I’d often been accused of being.

As I considered the wisdom of cleaning up my act, I realized that I’d spent the last three days drug-free. One or two Scotches had been my drink limit, far, far less than usual. I’d been waiting around for Granger rather than venturing out to find my kicks. That’s not to say that I didn’t indulge in a bit of self-stimulation, but that’s in a different category than substance abuse. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a bit shaky, but I wasn’t suffering for cutting back on the booze or drugs. For all I thought that I was living an addictive hell, my physical state, at least, seemed to indicate that I was a heavy recreational user, but I hadn’t quite fallen over that precipice. It meant I could decide to do something different. I could choose my own fate. 

While all of that made me feel a bit less morose over my own circumstances, I began to fret rather heavily when eight o’clock on that third night passed without a word. I agonized over whether I should go out to look for her or stay put so that she wouldn’t arrive at my door to find me gone. Although she’d apparently picked up some rather interesting skills in lock-picking, she wouldn’t be able to dismantle my wards without a wand, and I still had far too much cash (not to mention potions paraphernalia) to risk entry by any other person. As I carried on my internal debate over how to handle that dilemma, I found myself pacing the room. Cabin fever was setting in.

I began to get angry with her for not keeping her promises. Then, I got angry with myself for putting myself in that position, to be at the mercy of her decisions rather than my own. Why should I sit around, bored out of my mind, worried about her when she clearly had no consideration for me? I decided that I’d not spend another night twiddling my thumbs and consumed with trepidation over her fate. I’d made my offer to help. It was up to her to follow through. I needed a little stress relief, and by Merlin, I was going to find it.

When nine o’clock on that night rolled around, but she still hadn’t, I got dressed in something relatively appropriate for clubbing - don’t ask me what, my memory of that night is not that sharp - and pocketed some cash, a handful of condoms, my last packet of blow, and my disguised wand. Glamours in place, I headed out for a diversion. I’m not sure what it says about me or my thinking, but I did leave a note tucked in to the jamb of my door, in the event that she came by while I was out.

I went to the neighborhood where we’d met, not specifically with the intention to look for her (at least that’s what I told myself), but on the off chance that we’d bump into each other. If we didn’t, I was still fully intent on having a good time.

This was one of those nights where many of the details are decidedly fuzzy. I do know that walking around that neighborhood for an hour before finally settling on a club yielded no sign of Granger. That had me even more pissed off and resentful. A resentful Draco Malfoy quickly becomes a vindictive Draco Malfoy. (Why I had any type of thought that my carousing would be hurtful to her is completely beyond me. The very idea was utterly ridiculous.) In this case, that meant finding as much hedonistic trouble as was possible to find. All I really remember about it is an empty packet of blow, all my condoms used, an empty liter of Scotch, and if I didn’t dream it (and as utterly pornographic as my dreams can get, I don’t think so), two women. That was a first (and as far as I know, a last). Either that, or I was seeing double. Don’t really think so, though, as I have a vague picture of one being very dark-skinned and the other very pale.

Since a good portion of my high that night was alcohol-induced, I had a massive hangover the next morning. I honestly had no idea where I was when I woke up, but I was alone. It was, from all indications, a motel room or inn. I found the loo, pissed for a good minute or longer, then up-chucked into the toilet. Thank Merlin I’d flushed. I felt so miserable (not just physically) that I turned on the shower and stuck my head under the spray, not even waiting for the water to warm. Once it finally had come to a tolerable temperature, I stepped in fully, washing away gods knew what and groaning over what I was sure had been ridiculously excessive behavior when I had, mere hours earlier, actually given serious thought to keeping my nose clean.

Once cleansed of the remnants of the night, I used my wand to quickly dry my hair and freshen my clothes. I had no idea who had paid for the room; checking my pockets yielded a few quid (which, frankly, shocked me) and a handful of coins. There was no receipt to indicate that I’d settled up, but the amount of cash that I had left indicated it was probable that I’d prepaid. In any case, I had no intention of spending another single pound, so I Disillusioned myself before leaving the room. Let them try to find me.

I had no idea what time it was, other than that the sun had risen. I wasn’t observant enough on that day to even notice its position in the sky. It could have been eight in the morning or four in the afternoon, and I wouldn’t have known the difference. Why I didn’t check my watch is beyond my ken. My brain clearly was not functioning on any measurable level. I remember looking around to get my bearings, discovering with a combination of relief and gratitude that the area was quite familiar. I was only four or five blocks from my semi-permanent home. It was only when I got back to my room that my fogginess began to clear and I finally took stock of the previous hours.

The first thing I noticed was that the slip of paper that I’d left in the event that Granger stopped by was gone. My stomach rolled and my heart made its way into my throat. I didn’t see any obvious evidence that she’d left a message for me. I almost ran down to the desk to see if she’d left anything with the attendant, but decided to release my wards and check the room first.

Finding the wards undisturbed meant that she hadn’t even slipped a note under the door; that would have registered as an object entering the room. Pulling the door closed behind me and casting a quick Colloportus, I dashed down the three flights of stairs to the desk, moving so quickly that I nearly skidded to a stop.

The desk attendant - portly brother - lifted his rheumy eyes to see what the fuss was about. “Help you?” he groused.

“Wondering if anyone left a message for me. Drew Blackman. Room 14C,” I inquired.

Without checking any of the mailboxes behind the desk, he stared at me and said, “Nope.”

“Are you certain?” I pressed, not willing to take his laissez faire denial as accurate.

“Been here all day. Nobody left nothin’ for nobody,” he professed, this time with greater confidence and vehemence.

I raked my fingers through my hair, then, in frustration. “Well, did you see a young woman come through? About so tall,” I indicated my chin height, “slim, with curly brown hair.”

He actually paused for a moment, apparently searching for a recollection. “Possible. There’s been a coupla birds in and out today. Couldn’t say for sure, though.”

It seemed pretty clear that I wouldn’t get any useful information from the surly proprietor, but I thanked him perfunctorily and turned to head back up the stairs. He stopped me short when he called out, “One freebie, son, but she doesn’t stay overnight again without payin’.”

I smirked at him and nodded my acquiescence. He hadn’t noticed her coming or going today, but knew that she’d stayed the night. At least he’d missed one of the occasions. I shook my head at the inconsistency - or maybe selectiveness - of his observational skills. Regardless, I had no additional information than I’d had before I spoke to him; it had been a futile effort.

I’d finally managed to glance at my watch to check the time and I recall being surprised that it was only half nine. Since my head was still pounding, I dug into my potions stores to retrieve a hangover remedy. I popped the cork and swallowed the appropriate dosage, then decided to have something - a very light, very minimal something - for breakfast. I was hungry, having no idea what, if anything, I’d eaten the previous evening, but I also didn’t want to upset my stomach any further. The hangover potion usually took care of that issue, but that wasn’t always the case if drugs had been consumed in addition to alcohol. I knew for sure that I’d done the entire packet of coke, based on how high I’d been. It’s even very probable that I’d taken something in addition to that. I recalled, vaguely, licking something off someone’s abdomen. I wasn’t sure whether that memory deserved a smirk or a groan.

Since I’d already showered, I didn’t have much to do other than wait. For what, I wasn’t sure. Was I waiting for her to come back? My note had simply said I was out for the night and urged her to return the next day. I suppose I could have been waiting to figure out how I really felt about the previous evening’s debauchery. I knew it had felt great in the moment, lack of specific recollections notwithstanding. So why was I feeling such a pervasive sense of unease? I was jittery and restless, unable to quiet either my mind or my body. I must have paced the room a hundred times, but every time I considered leaving, the sensation of impending doom became crushing. I wanted to rip my hair out.

My agitation finally got so overwhelming that I resorted to chemical help. Although I didn’t have any Muggle-style downers or tranquilizers, I had a perfectly adequate supply of both Dreamless Sleep potion and Calming Draught. The temptation to take both was powerful, but on some level of my consciousness, I knew that being completely out for the count wasn’t a productive idea. I settled on the Calming Draught – a dose and a half – and stretched out on the bed. I figured that a good orgasm was as effective a sleep aid as any, so I stripped off and got to it. The Draught had relaxed me enough to allow me to get hard, and the orgasm gave me a brief respite that would have been hours of unconsciousness, had I combined the two potions instead. Thus, I was lightly napping, peaceful, warm and sated, two hours later when I heard the banging on my door.

It took me a moment or two to drag myself into awareness, and I called out, “Hang on!” to whomever was making all the racket. I assumed it was Granger, but one couldn’t be certain. I dragged a pair of trousers over my hips and lurched toward the noise of the now incessant pounding.

I tugged the door open without asking, and I wasn’t shocked to see her there. Seriously, who else could it have been? Before I even invited her in, I could tell that something was… off. Her energy level was so high that I could practically see it vibrating in waves from her skin. Her pupils were blown wide and when she finally spoke, it was with a speed and cadence that could only be described as manic. It was what she said, and what happened in the next few seconds, that had me reeling.

“Draco, I’ve done it now. I think I’ve finally gone over the cliff. They’ll never hurt me again.”

That’s what I thought she said, anyway. Her words were slurred and indistinct, and it seemed as though those three brief sentences took hours to speak. Soon, whatever I’d interpreted didn’t matter as events unfolded rapidly.

She reached a hand toward me, obviously unsteady on her feet, and before I could grasp it, I watched as her eyes rolled back in her head and she crumpled to the floor.

There must have been ten thousand things that ran through my head in that second as I watched her fall. The first was near-panic over whether she’d actually just dropped dead before my eyes or just passed out. I knew enough to feel for a pulse at her neck, and found one. It was fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings. Knowing that she wasn’t dead – yet – was small comfort as I knew next to nothing about healing, magical or Muggle. I debated whether I should call for help from the Muggle authorities, but my ignorance about how to do that stayed my hand. I suppose that I could have sought aid by getting whomever was attending the front desk to call, but I also didn’t want to leave her there on the floor, quite probably to die alone in my brief absence.

It’s funny how the brain works. One of the most powerful and insistent images that invaded my consciousness in those few seconds was a picture of the same woman, writhing in pain under my aunt’s wand on the drawing room floor of my family home. Of all the moments I’d felt small, insignificant, helpless, and even worthless, that had been the very top of the heap, even above my failed assassination attempts against our former Headmaster. I’d been utterly incapable of helping her then without ensuring my own death in the process, and the guilt that I still felt over that was palpable.

The words she’d uttered just prior to her collapse rang in my ears. Had she done something deliberately to cause this result? What was very clear was that she was in the midst of an overdose of some kind. Had that been accidental, yet she retained enough awareness until that moment to understand the probable consequences of what she’d done? And why had she come to me? Why hadn’t she sought help from someone who actually knew what to do? She was a Muggle-born; surely she understood how the emergency systems worked in this world. The only thought that circled my brain was the idea that she’d sought out someone familiar so that she wouldn’t die completely alone. “Thanks a lot, Granger,” I remember murmuring, angry on some level that she would give me one more horrifying memory to haunt my dreams.

That’s when I decided that I would have none of it. I would not allow my conscience to suffer another blow from failing to help. I thought back again to the time I’d failed her so miserably, the regret a bitter pill on my tongue. There had to be a way to redeem myself from this karmic disaster and pull her back from the brink of death. Having no idea what she’d ingested (or injected, though I saw no evidence of needle marks when I pushed up the sleeves of her jumper) wasn’t either a help or hindrance since I had no supplies (or training) to deal with such an emergency. I wracked my brain for a potential solution from the magical world, but I knew no spell, charm or incantation that would reverse a chemical overdose. Most poisons had specific antidotes, and I had only the most rudimentary versions available in my potions stores. I remembered something Professor Slughorn had said once about a universal antidote to nearly any poison – and if drugs weren’t poison, I don’t know what was – that he’d always listed on every potions ingredients checklist. One of those checklists had, in fact, been the basis for the vials, tins, and jars I’d collected prior to my voluntary exile.

I dashed to the closet to see if I’d had the brains to keep the slip of paper that I’d meticulously tick-marked as I’d added each herb, animal part, or natural chemical to my duffle. Since one had to be fairly tidy with potentially volatile elements, that was one portion of my little home that I’d consistently kept in good order. I found the list in seconds, thank Merlin, and scanned it quickly. About three-quarters of the way down, I saw the word “bezoar” that had been tickling at the edges of my memory. It had been ticked off. That meant that I had at least one, and I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I’d not used any. It took me another ten seconds to find a small tin labeled with the word in capital letters across the top. I pried off the lid and took one of the four stones between my shaking fingers, moving faster than a Snitch back to Hermione’s side.

Nothing about her condition had obviously changed in those thirty seconds, but I’m smart enough to realize that appearances and actuality are not the same thing. I hoped that I wasn’t too late. I tried to coax her mouth open and found that her jaws were clamped tight. I had to get that bezoar into her throat, but I knew of no spell that would accomplish that. I resorted to basic mechanics. Jaws were a form of hinge, I reasoned, so pressure at the juncture should pop them open. I used my thumbs, one on each side, to create leverage, not as concerned as I probably should have been to guard against bruising or hurting her. I rationalized that this was certainly a matter of life and death; a small ache was probably an acceptable price to pay. She could yell at me later, I thought.

Finally, her lips parted and I forced the bezoar into her throat with my forefinger, entreating the gods that the remedy would work, that I’d been in time.

I recall that each second felt like an hour as I waited for a reaction. I remember calling her name, begging her to respond to me. Her body was limp in my arms and I shook her shoulders and tapped her cheeks without results. I was as angry as I’d ever been, but at whom, I didn’t really know. The list of suspects was extensive, and the two other members of what had once been dubbed “The Golden Trio” were at the top. I suppose that my own name belonged there, too. Anger mixed with frustration and fear for a nearly interminable stretch of uncounted seconds. I despaired that I’d been too late, and I dropped my head onto her chest, allowing a sob of unexpectedly deep grief to shake both of us.

I remember counting to ten before lifting my head. The tears swimming in my eyes obscured my vision, but I had one thing I needed to do. If she was going to die, I didn’t want it to be on the floor. It was so important that I didn’t even consider the myriad ramifications of her dying in my bed. I lifted her as gently as I could, struggling under the weight of my sadness more than that of her body. I set her down so that her head rested on my pillow, and I leaned in to kiss her goodbye.


	15. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What really happened to Hermione? The answers are here...

As I pulled away, nowhere near ready to think about what to do with a deceased Hermione Granger, she gasped loudly and sat straight up.

I was so stunned that I stumbled backward, arms flailing, and landed hard on my tailbone. The combination of the shock and the pain had me gulping for breath. I watched while she blinked rapidly, apparently trying to reconcile her expectations with the reality that she was still alive. She opened her mouth as if to speak, but closed it again with an audible click of her teeth. When she finally looked at me, narrowing her eyes as if to say, ‘What the fuck are you doing on the floor?’ she shook her head quickly.

I didn’t know quite what to say to her. I was as certain as I could be that I’d just watched her die- that the bezoar had failed. I scrambled to my feet, or more accurately, to my knees. I crawled to the bed, and still not having said a word, laid my hand on her arm, looking for confirmation that what I was seeing was real. I don’t know what she saw in my expression, but her breathing started to calm and she sank back onto the pillow with a groan.

Hoarsely, she asked, “Bezoar?”

I nodded in reply. “Are you…?” I couldn’t find a word that captured what I wanted to know.

It was her turn to nod. “I’m fine. A little shaky,” she added unnecessarily. I could see the trembling in her limbs.

I pushed myself up from the floor and kneeled beside the bed. Anger started to resurface and I confronted her with a question that was at least half accusation. “What the fuck happened? What did you do? Why did you come here?” I hadn’t shouted, but my harsh whispers felt unnaturally loud in the otherwise silent room.

Rather than looking chagrined, her expression was resigned. “It wasn’t intentional, if that’s what you think. The last few days have been… dreadful, and I couldn’t get relief from anything. I mixed a couple of things – I’m truly not even sure what – and it wasn’t enough. By that point, though, I was high enough that I’m pretty sure I didn’t know what I was doing. I think I took something more. I know I did. I’m not sure why I came here; it’s not likely I had the capability of rational thought.”

In my head, I was tossing around the question of how she’d even managed to get here in her condition. Sheer force of will was the only explanation I could fathom, although that still didn’t account for why. That explanation, though, was secondary to what had actually occurred. “I thought I just watched you die, Granger. I fucking kissed you goodbye. I think it’s time you shared a hell of a lot more detail about what the hell is going on with you if you want any more help from me. I can’t watch anyone else die. Not again,” I told her. I remember staring at her until she looked away with obvious discomfort. It occurred to me then that medical help might be required. “Shouldn’t we get you to a hospital? You just overdosed in a pretty spectacular way.”

The image of her taking stock of her body and cataloguing each system was one that will stay with me forever. How calculating she was, in the face of death. “I actually feel pretty good, all things considered. A bezoar absorbs all the poison – or drugs, in this case – and thereby cleanses the blood, organs, and tissues of all its effects. Plus, it’s a powerful source of magic that’s now inside my body.”

I snorted and shook my head. “Only you would be a swot at a time like this.”

She shrugged, then pushed her way past me off the bed. “Let me use the loo, maybe take a shower, then we can talk.”

I couldn’t think of a valid reason to refuse her request, so I waved my hand toward the tiny bath. “Clean towels are on the rack. But when you’re done, yes, we talk.” I reflected as she nodded and disappeared behind the door how utterly normal she had sounded, as though we were chums having a chat over tea.

That left me sitting on the bed, taking stock of what had happened over the last ten minutes. I recall being flabbergasted that the moments which had felt like an eternity had been so few in ticks of the clock.

I stood and paced, wincing as the ache in my tailbone made itself evident once again. I figured that it gave me the excuse to tell her truthfully that she was the cause of a major pain in my arse. I availed myself of a pain-relieving potion while I waited for her to rejoin me; I hoped that I hadn’t cracked my coccyx. I took those minutes to consider how much reciprocal revelation I’d need to offer. If I was asking her to come clean, I supposed that it would only be natural that she’d require the same. I thought that my story was probably less shocking than hers. It wouldn’t be long before I discovered what an enormous underestimation that was.

When the bathroom door finally opened, clouds of steam billowing out, she exited towel-drying her hair. I don’t know why it surprised me, but she’d dressed in the clothes in which she’d arrived. Was I expecting her to just wrap herself in one of those pathetic towels? I shook my head to clear the stupidity from my thoughts. She sat in the armchair as gracefully as my mother had ever done, back straight, shoulders squared, ankles crossed, and chin held high, but not defiant.

“Thank you,” she said. At my quizzical look, she added, “For the use of your shower, but mostly for...”

I got the message implied as her voice trailed away. “Don’t mention it. You would have done the same for me. Probably,” I replied, adding the last completely unnecessary dig. I was apparently still pissed off. “You owe me, Hermione. Tell me what the hell really happened to you.”

Her shoulders sagged a bit and she relaxed against the back of the chair, something my mother never would have done, even in the privacy of her own suite. In slumber was the only time her perfectly stiff spine would touch anything other than the garment in which it was clothed. But Granger wasn’t a fifty-one-year-old aristocrat who’d been raised to be the epitome of social grace. “Then or now?” she asked. It was, as I subsequently told her, a highly ineffective attempt at stalling the conversation.

“How about starting at the beginning?” I pressed. I waited as she gathered her thoughts, her reluctance to speak writ large in her expression. Finally, she took a deep breath and surprised me by asking a question.

“Do you know what a Horcrux is?”

I couldn’t recall ever having heard the term and told her so.

“Well, it’s probably better that you don’t know much about that, but let’s just call it an artefact, a horribly dark one. Harry, Ron, and I were looking for five of them during the months we were away,” she explained. “They had to be destroyed in order to ensure that Voldemort would die and… stay that way.”

I know that my eyes widened at the implications. I’d been around dark magic, if not the items to which she’d referred, for long enough that I had at least some idea how very black these artefacts would have been. Blood or soul magic, if my assessment was accurate, and neither of those were anything to play with.

“How would that have landed you in trouble with anyone other than the Dark Lord or Death Eaters?” I asked. I recall thinking that something here wasn’t making a lot of sense.

“It starts with where one of them was located and how we… retrieved it,” she clarified.

When I just nodded at her to continue, she swallowed heavily before speaking. “One of them was located in Bellatrix Lestrange’s Gringotts vault. I… impersonated her and we broke in and stole it,” she said.

“You what?” I screeched. Now, I don’t think of myself as one to get overly excited or emotional about much – at least outwardly – but I knew enough about Goblins and their hard-assed attitudes that I could begin to piece together how Hermione Granger had fallen from grace. It was her story, though, and I needed her to fill in the blanks, of which it was clear there were many.

One question was burning, though, and I had to ask it. “Hermione, exactly how did you manage to impersonate Bella?”

“Um, Polyjuice potion. And her wand,” she said, looking at me pointedly only after she’d completed her thought.

Oh, fuck. She’d probably managed to collect a strand of hair whilst my aunt was looming over her, holding a blade to her throat – on the floor in my drawing room while I watched helplessly. (The one moment - prior to what had happened an hour earlier - in my… association with the woman that I never wanted to relive but which invariably haunted my dreams.) I knew that Dobby had disarmed Bella during the melee that facilitated their escape; Granger had certainly received the wand from him.

“Wait a minute. You took a strand of hair while she was torturing you? How could you possibly have retained the ability to think that clearly?” I challenged.

She quirked a wry smile. “It wasn’t a deliberate thing. Everyone loses dozens of strands every day. I was just… in the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess. I found it on my jumper, and along with the wand, it was an opportunity too good to pass up.”

“How did you even know one of these Hor-whatevers was in her vault?” I wondered.

“Horcrux,” she repeated. “Well, I didn’t for certain, but the fact that she was so freaked out about us possibly having been in there – which, by the way, we hadn’t – told us that there was something worth exploring. I was telling the truth about not having found the sword in her vault the whole time.”

I blew out a breath. From the first time I thought I’d seen her, all those weeks ago, something told me I’d not get my wish to keep that set of memories buried. I had to tell her, though, or I’d burst. “Hermione, you know that I’m sorry about not helping, right? She’d have killed me, then you if I’d interfered. I wish I could have, truly, but I knew it would have been a death sentence for everyone who defied her.”

“I’m not an idiot, Draco. I know you couldn’t have helped,” she answered. “I didn’t blame you.”

“By that time, I’d already been plotting my escape for weeks. I couldn’t do it anymore.” Although I’d shared that bit of information, I didn’t want to turn this discussion to my issues before getting the full story from her. I needed to get the conversation back on track. “We’ll talk more about that later. Go on,” I encouraged.

“When we… left Gringotts, there was a lot of damage and when Voldemort found out that we’d managed to steal the cup, he killed Griphook,” she explained.

I interrupted her there, because I had no idea what she was talking about. “Wait a minute. What cup? I thought you were looking for a Horcrux.”

“Helga Hufflepuff’s golden goblet. It was the Horcrux. Bella had hidden it for Voldemort in her vault.” She huffed impatiently as I opened my mouth to ask another question. “Draco, please don’t ask me to talk about what a Horcrux is and how the cup was involved. All you need to know is that they were one and the same.”

She’d accurately guessed what I wanted to know. It was apparent that whatever magic was involved was deeply troubling; she absolutely didn’t want to discuss it. I concluded, though, that it probably wasn’t material to her story, so I closed my mouth and sat back against the headboard. I waved a hand in her direction. “Continue, then.”

“Thank you. Trust me, it’s not something that should ever again be spoken of aloud.” She shuddered involuntarily. Of course, that was enough to make me even more curious, but I didn’t want to derail the discussion.

“Fine,” I said. I thought, “For now.” One look at her face caused me to concede, at least to myself, that this might be something I’d be willing to let go of, however.

“After the initial euphoria of Voldemort being defeated and most of the Death Eaters captured, there was a bit of a power vacuum. The remaining pureblood families were doing everything they could to consolidate power, and most of them still had someone who could occupy their Wizengamot seat. An Interim Minister was appointed from among them until elections could be held, but that wouldn’t happen for months. The Goblins were beyond livid about the fact that they’d been tricked, and they wanted blood. They lobbied heavily for someone to pay the price. They settled on me as the target.”

“What about Potter and Weasley? Weren’t they with you at the time?” I wondered.

“Of course. But Harry was the Boy Who Lived Twice, and Ron had lost a brother. Plus, he was a pureblood. Even if some viewed him as a Blood Traitor, it was less likely that they’d go after someone whose family was on the register of the Sacred Twenty-Eight as they would some upstart Muggle-born.”

“Well, they would have defended you, of course,” I recall asserting.

“One might think, but, no. That’s not exactly what happened.” Her eyes seemed to be welling up as she got to this part of her narration. “Ron and I… there was a brief time when we were together, but it became eminently clear within just a couple of weeks that he wanted me to be a clone of his mother. That’s not what I’ve ever wanted for my life or out of a relationship. His neanderthal views of what he believed was a woman’s ‘place’ were enough to ensure that we’d barely remain friends. When I broke up with him, he became… irrational. He was angry and resentful, and he blamed all of his problems on me. He was only too happy to point the finger at me when he was implicated. It was all my fault, he told them. The idea, the planning, the execution, everything. It had the minor advantage of being true. He claimed that I’d coerced him into helping. That part, of course, was a blatant lie. He betrayed seven years of friendship, and more, because I wanted more out of my life than to be a baby factory and housefrau.”

“What about Potter? What role did he play in this debacle?”

She harrumphed. “Harry was exhausted on every level after the final battle. Magically, emotionally, physically, and probably most of all, psychologically. He’d gone into the forest with the expectation that he would die, and he did, in a manner of speaking. When it was all over, he just wanted to be… cocooned, I guess, is the best way to describe it. No one does that better than the Weasleys. He’s always wanted a real family, and that’s what they represented to him. He and Ginny have been dancing around each other for years, and he embraced the idea fully. Since I’d rejected Ron…”

“You weren’t part of the family,” I finished for her through gritted teeth. “I get it. They both threw you under the bus.” I was seething. I’d been angry, furious, enraged – you pick the adjective – more times than I could count during that year, but my wrath and indignation at the injustice they’d done her had to rank in the top three. She’d been the brains of the operation, and without her, we’d probably all be living under the rule of a megalomaniac now. I completely understood - and agreed with - her assertion that she’d been betrayed. If there was anything worse than betrayal, that’s what they’d done to her. She’d been virtually assassinated, without actually killing her body.

“So, that explains the why, the who, and the when. Tell me the what and the how,” I demanded.

“In exchange for immunity from prosecution over the break-in, they both testified against me. The Goblins got their scapegoat, Harry got his family, Ron got his revenge, and I got screwed,” she summarized.

“The Wizengamot’s purebloods saw it as an opportunity to make an example out of me – the Mudblood who had no place in their society – so rather than tossing me into Azkaban, they did the more cruel thing, taking away my wand and banishing me from Magical Great Britain.”

I tugged at my hair with both hands. Not a fucking thing had changed. Although he was dead, it seemed to me that in very real ways, Voldemort had won. The old families had consolidated their power and the conservative wing was firmly in control. It was a fucking disaster.

“Well, they can’t prevent you from going to any other magical enclave, can they?” I asked, seizing on what seemed like an opportunity.

“No, they can’t, but that doesn’t make such a move easy. I have money from my inheritance, but that won’t last forever. I’ve not understood why I felt so poorly until now, and I’ve made some massively stupid decisions because I couldn’t think straight. Taking drugs and sleeping around is not what I envisioned for my life, but here I am,” she finished bitterly.

“What inheritance?” I wondered aloud.

“My parents were killed in a car crash shortly after they moved to Australia. After I forced them to move to Australia for their safety. Their deaths ended the memory charms I placed on them, and the estate became mine.” It seemed that there was more to that story, too, but I saw in her guilt-laden visage that now was not the time to press for that explanation.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” was my heartfelt reply. After a brief pause, I asked, “Hermione, why didn’t you come to me every day, like we agreed?” This, I needed to understand.

She shrugged. “Embarrassment, I guess. Feeling that I wasn’t in control. I didn’t want to make my problems your problems. I’m not your burden to bear.”

“Look, Granger, you may not know me well, but I’m pretty certain you know me well enough to recognize that I wouldn’t make an offer that I wasn’t fully committed to keeping.”

She looked at me then, holding my attention with her penetrating gaze. “Why, Draco? Why help me?”

“Because I can, and because I want to. Should there be any other reason?” I challenged.

“But why do you want to? That doesn’t make sense to me. We’re not friends,” she alleged.

The crude wanker in me wanted to assert that we were barely fuck-buddies, never mind friends. But I held my tongue. What I told her instead was, “No, but we’re both fleeing from a corrupt and unforgiving system. The way I look at it, neither of us has anyone else. Why not partner up and do what we can to support each other?”

It was, to my mind, a pragmatic and mutually beneficial arrangement. If, of course, we could figure out how to pull ourselves out of our individual pits. Sometimes, though, one needs a hand to climb out. That seemed to be the opportunity here. She needed frequent contact with my magic to ward off the ills of magical core corruption, and I needed the focus of a purpose to keep my nose clean, literally and figuratively. I recognized that helping her could be that purpose, although I didn’t fully understand the “why” that she’d demanded to know, my selfish Slytherin tendencies aside. Either that, or we’d drag each other to the very depths. There was something in my gut that had me hopeful that it wouldn’t go that way. I just had to get her to see it, too.


	16. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Hermione's revelations...

We sat quietly for long minutes while each of us absorbed the implications of the information she had shared, for ourselves as individuals and for the wizarding world as a whole. I felt more strongly than ever that leaving, at least for the intermediate term, had been the right decision. Any so-called leadership that emerged sounded like it was more self-interested than focused on the good of our society. Shame that this seemed to be true in much of the Muggle world, too. Money talked, and the old families still had enough of it to heavily sway decisions and to control the direction of the debate. While torture and murder may no longer rule the day, supremacy would be bought and sold like the commodity it had always been and would likely always be. There weren’t enough altruistic wizards with those kinds of virtually unlimited means on the light side to counterbalance that overwhelming weight.

That led me to wonder about my parents’ fate. If anyone had money to influence society’s direction, my family was certainly at the top of that list. Granger had mentioned during our first conversation that they were under house arrest pending trial. It suddenly hit me like a kick from a Hippogriff that I’d failed to ask for any additional detail. With what crimes had they been charged? Had the trials been held, and if so, had they been convicted? I also realized that it wasn’t likely that she knew much more than she’d told me, at least about the outcome, because she’d been here in Liverpool for several months. Anything could have happened in that time frame; my parents could have been Kissed, for all I knew. It was no less likely that my father could have been returned to his seat on the Wizengamot and my mother was once again hosting galas. Whatever the case, I was fairly sure they were done mourning me. Although Hermione had said that I was “presumed dead,” I felt certain that they’d have tried to move on with as little fuss as possible. Maybe I was being cold-hearted, but I wasn’t anywhere near close to forgiving them for the position in which they’d put me. As much as I told myself that I didn’t want to see them – that they’d betrayed me by getting involved with the Twisted Lord almost as badly as Potter and Weasley had betrayed Granger – I’d be lying to say that I harbored no curiosity.

It was clear that we’d both been lost in our own thoughts for some time. I probably should have been paying closer attention to Granger, considering what she’d just been through. When I finally broke from my reverie, I realized that she’d dozed off in the chair. At least, I hoped that she was just sleeping. I was torn between allowing her what was probably desperately needed rest and shaking her to ensure that she hadn’t fallen into unconsciousness again.

I got up from the bed and approached her quietly, trying to observe anything I could to make a conclusion about her state of being. When I allowed my own mind to quiet and simply see what was in front of me, it was clear that she was breathing deeply and rhythmically, and her body was relaxed. I touched her arm – don’t ask me why I kept doing that – and found that her skin was warm and dry. While I didn’t know exactly what that meant, it felt… normal. Her eyes were darting about under her lids, and it seemed that she had already entered a fairly deep dream state. All things considered, I decided that she appeared to be out of any imminent danger.

I stepped back for a moment to take stock of myself and found that my own hands hadn’t stopped shaking. Adrenaline was still coursing through my veins. It wasn’t terribly different from the feeling I used to get after an exhilarating game of Quidditch or a particularly good fuck. A good rest wouldn’t do me any harm, either.

Looking at her curled up on the chair, I felt a pang of something I refused to categorize. While it appeared that she was sleeping peacefully, there was no doubt in my mind that she’d awaken with aches and pains all over, constrained to such a small space. I sighed, then approached her to figure out how to move her out of the chair without disturbing her. I tucked one arm under her bended knees and the other around her back, and lifted her carefully. She wasn’t heavy, but the position had been awkward; I was grateful that the bed was only two steps away. I set her down so that her head rested on the pillow (which I’d enhanced to something more acceptable with a judicious application of magic), and I settled in beside her. My reasoning was that the physical contact with my magic would aid in her recovery. (Don’t look at me that way.) I pulled the covers over us and we slept.

*****

The fact that we “napped” for close to nine hours should be enough to tell you how physically and emotionally exhausted we both were, albeit for very different reasons. It was around three in the morning when she finally roused, stumbling in her sleepiness to the loo. I was waiting at the door when she was done, my need as urgent as hers had been.

When I returned, she was sitting up in the bed, propped up by the pillow which she’d folded in half for better support. I grabbed my wand and tilted my head toward the item to make my intention known. My voice wasn’t cooperating terribly well, but I finally croaked out a spell to duplicate the item, giving her both when the task was done. I crawled back in beside her, and to my surprise, she abandoned the pillows I’d just conjured and used my chest as a rest for her head instead. I wasn’t averse to the idea, just hadn’t expected it. I wrapped my arms around her and held her close.

“Does this help?” I asked, my voice still hoarse with disuse.

She nodded against me, but didn’t say anything for a while. I thought she might have drifted back off to sleep, until she murmured, “Always feels better.”

I didn’t reply, but, apparently feeling protective, tightened my hold. She’d gone quiet, but I could tell she wasn’t asleep by the little shifts and hitches in her breathing. In the darkness, I gathered the courage to ask a question.

“You told me that my parents were under house arrest, but you didn’t say for what. Do you know anything more about… what happened to them?” I hated the hesitation in my voice.

“I was wondering when you’d get around to asking,” she said with a sigh.

I shrugged. “There seemed to be more pressing things to discuss. It’s not that I didn’t want to know so much as I didn’t want to care,” I confessed. Darkness does strange things to the level of honesty in one’s words, I’ve found.

“Well, it’s a bit complicated,” she began. “Initially, your father was charged with treason and sedition and your mother was charged with conspiracy to aid treason. This, of course, was because of their public support of Voldemort. But they did something during the final battle that muddied the waters, and that’s apparently the only reason they were not carted off to Azkaban immediately. Even with the overcrowding, the Ministry was making sure that those with the most serious charges against them were held there.”

Now I was confused, and I asked aloud the question that had been rolling around in my head. “What could they possibly have done to mitigate hosting Snake-face in their fucking home?” I noted belatedly that I hadn’t referred to the manse as “ours.”

“Where would you like me to start, your mother or your father?” she offered.

“Mother.” For the most part, I viewed her as a passive character in this little drama, caught up in things that my father had set in motion. Her enthusiasm was almost as tepid as my own, but she hadn’t made an effort to break away, as far as I could tell, and her outward efforts to shield me were paltry, at best.

“Are you aware of what happened to Harry around half-way through the day?” she asked in preface.

“I’d heard Snake-face’s assertion that he’d killed him, but I also heard later that it wasn’t true.”

“That’s the eventual outcome, but Harry did die – at least a little piece of him. It had something to do with the Horcruxes. Long story. But he did appear to be dead for a period of time. That’s where your mother comes in. Voldemort apparently asked her to confirm that Harry was dead. Instead, she discovered that Harry was alive, but hid that from him in order to find out about your fate.”

Well, that was certainly a twist I hadn’t expected. I was silent for long moments as I absorbed what she’d told me. I finally summoned the courage to ask her to continue. That came in the form of a curt nod.

“I think it was a very brave thing to do,” Hermione suggested. “She wanted nothing more than to know if you were still alive, and she risked her life and saved Harry’s to get that nugget of information that was at least three hours old.”

I don’t know if she was trying to lay a guilt trip on me about my mother’s belated conversion to caring parent, but I wasn’t ready to allow that into my heart. I closed that door tightly and urged her to continue with the remainder of the tale.

“Your father had no wand throughout the battle, I’ve heard. He didn’t fight. He and your mother searched for you. They hid from Death Eaters and Order alike, only emerging once the outcome was determined. There were hundreds of witnesses who would have been able to testify that they didn’t cast a single spell.”

“So you’re telling me that my parents were cowards,” I asserted.

“No, I’m telling you the facts about their actions, to the best of my knowledge. Only they can attest to their motivation. I know that your mother asked Harry where you were and if you were okay, and that she defied Voldemort to do it. I know that at least one other person told me on that day that your father had been asking for you. I don’t draw any conclusions from those facts, and it might be wise for you to withhold judgment, too.”

I was feeling miserably petulant as I listened to her rational argument. How fucked up was that? She’d nearly killed herself with a drug overdose less than twelve hours earlier, and she was the voice of reason. “You didn’t have to live with them,” I grumbled. “It seems I was only worthy of care or notice once I’d already left.”

She pulled away from me a bit, and although I doubted she could even see my face in the darkness, I felt her gaze. “It sounds to me that I’m not the only one who feels betrayed. Were they really so callous?”

My anger and resentment spilled out then. I don’t recall ever having spoken aloud about what my parents had done, or failed to do, that had hurt me so deeply, until that moment. “I was just a boy, a very small boy, when I first heard my father talk with hatred and disdain about Muggles and Muggle-born wizards. Those were the opinions that colored my childhood and adolescence. I think the only reason he didn’t speak of the Dark Lord when I was very little is that he truly assumed the beast was dead. Even in our world, as stunning as some of our feats can be, coming back from beyond the grave just doesn’t happen. When those rumors started to circulate, I never heard my father express any concern or dread over it. He wasn’t gleeful at the prospect, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him happy beyond being vaguely amused. He’s a pretty dour chap. Of course, we were at school for the bulk of the time, so I can’t attest to what he said or did during those months.

“What I do know is that when I was home on breaks or for the summer from fourth year on, my father was obsessed with the idea of ‘positioning’ ourselves. He’s always been a political animal, but he was taking it to extremes. Every conversation, every action, every purchase, every dinner guest… I don’t care what it was, there was a calculation of advantage and outcome. He kept telling me that I’d have to do my ‘duty’ without ever explaining what that was. I guess he expected obedience to any order he gave. That certainly wasn’t a foreign concept to me, growing up in an aristocratic home, but the cruelty that seemed to be layered in the things he was doing was shocking.

“I remember that he’d come home some nights, shut himself in his study, and the sounds of things breaking would permeate through the silencing spells he’d cast. In the morning, everything seemed put to rights, but he’d never answer if my mother questioned him about what was infuriating him so. I never had the courage to ask, but I know that I wondered if his actions were the result of anger or frustration or something else. I know that it frightened me to know that he was losing control, even if I didn’t witness it with my own eyes. And still, the only thing he’d tell me was that I needed to obey.

“When Death Eaters began showing up at the manor in the summer after sixth year, it quickly became clear that my father had veritably no control over what was happening in his own house. He was being punished for his failures, and I got swept up in the tide.” I stopped there, knowing that Hermione was a very smart girl. She’d catch my allusions to what I’d done to contribute to our Headmaster’s demise. The shame I felt over how I’d behaved – and what I’d facilitated – would never leave me, even if I lived to be two hundred years old. I wondered briefly whether Potter had ever told her about the condition in which he’d found me in the bathroom prior to the duel that had nearly ended my life. (It still surprised me that she’d said nothing at all about the thick white scar that traversed my ribcage nor my altered Dark Mark; neither were topics about which I cared to converse.) I wasn’t curious enough to ask. It was territory better left unexplored, if only for my own sanity. Just another moment in a long list of events that caused me shame and humiliation.

I remember that there was something in the dynamic that shifted in that moment. It was her arms tightening around me to offer solace; I knew she’d understood what I’d left unspoken. I didn’t speak again for many minutes.

It was she who broke the silence. “I don’t know what happened to them. Their trials had not been held when I was banished. I haven’t heard a word from the wizarding world since.”

I nodded in the darkness, but I was sure she’d felt it against the top of her head.

“Do you really want to know?” she prodded.

It took me a long time to answer. “No. Not right now, anyway. Maybe in a few more months, when I’ve had time for my anger to wane.”

I’ll never forget how she snuggled more deeply into my embrace, placing a delicate kiss on my collarbone, then lifting her head to deposit another on my cheek. It was comforting in a way that I hadn’t experienced in longer than I could remember, maybe ever. I kissed her then, slowly, languorously, without any endgame in mind. The touch of my lips against hers was enough.

*****

I need to explain that at that stage, I had no specific tender attachment to her. I still barely knew her, and she barely knew me. We were in similar kettles of hot water and a level of familiarity far beyond anything either of us had felt in many long months facilitated an intimacy that might not have otherwise developed. We were both (marginally) equipped to provide something the other needed or wanted, and that became a foundation for sharing more of ourselves than our bodies. I’ve come to think, though, that repeated physical intimacy almost certainly leads to emotional connections. After all, millennia of arranged marriages wouldn’t have been at least somewhat successful if a couple was unable to build a bond that likely only began in the marriage bed.

Then, though, we were sources of comfort, one for the other. I don’t deny that I felt horrible over how the two men she’d thought would be her lifelong friends had wholly betrayed her. I empathized only too well; I viewed my parents’ betrayal via their involvement with the Dark Lord as slightly less sensational and dramatic, but no less complete.

When we finally woke after another extended nap, Hermione’s physical condition again became a concern. The immediate danger of the overdose had passed, which I credited to the bezoar, and she’d slept comfortably for close to fourteen hours, most of those enveloped in my arms. She hadn’t asked, nor had I explicitly offered, but I was certain that the symptoms of her magical core corruption would return once the palliative effects of the bezoar wore off. I’d hoped for a full day, for her sake, but slightly more than half of that was what we got. I guessed that there had been enough drugs in her body to diminish the strength of the remedy; its absorption abilities, while great, were not infinite.

At midmorning, we both rose again to use the loo, and when I returned to the bed, it was clear that she was trembling. There was no way for either of us to know whether the bezoar would have had any effect on chemical addiction, but I strongly suspected that the thorough nature in which the stone was purported to clean the body of toxins had done what no Muggle treatment could hope to do so quickly. That left the conclusion that it was her magical core causing her discomfort. My heart broke a little when I saw her misery, I must admit. It had been her insight that had helped me to understand that a bezoar was not a panacea, though, and wouldn’t help to relieve the core corruption that plagued her. For example, she’d told me, if there were no toxins in her system, the otherwise magical properties simply didn’t exist; it was merely a stone. Realization also quickly dawned that there were now fewer options left to relieve her pain. There was no way that I could allow her to take another drug, just to begin the cycle again. I’m certain she knew that, too.

I remember glancing toward the nightstand where my “biro” rested and, on some level, hoping that she wouldn’t reach for it. I knew that it was the least emotionally complicated option, but it wasn’t the most efficacious. Sharing my magical core would relieve her pain for longer and more fully. She’d have to cast twenty or more high-intensity spells to get the same result as one session of intercourse. Still, I’d leave the decision to her; I wouldn’t presume to make a suggestion that could be seen as self-serving.

“What do you need, Hermione?” I asked, keeping my volume at a whisper. It seemed the thing to do.

She looked and sounded only the tiniest bit resigned when she answered me. “There’s really no smarter choice, is there?”

I shook my head slowly, solemnly.

“Then, if it’s alright with you, I think we should,” she said, reaching for the hem of the t-shirt she’d borrowed to sleep in.

I stayed her hand. The overwhelming need to take care of her bubbled up in my chest, and I swallowed heavily around the lump in my throat. “Let me,” I offered.

That moment was so intimate, so perfect, that I don’t think I want to share the details. I’m rather certain that was the first time I ever made love. I’m also pretty sure it was the moment I started to fall for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your feedback is most welcome!


	17. 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A discussion about the future...

I awakened hours later to the sound of a growling stomach. I chuckled, realizing that the sound was being produced from two sources. A quick calculation revealed that neither of us had eaten in close to twenty hours. We were spooned together, and I could tell by her even, steady breathing that she was still sleeping. Tiny twitches, though, made it clear that it wouldn’t be long before she was aware (if my erection poking her backside wasn’t enough).

We’d made love twice that day, another short nap in the intermission. Merlin, how fucked up our sleep cycles had been! I know that I needed a long stretch of wakefulness and a decent meal. The extended period of rest had probably been beneficial for her, but I was equally certain that she needed some nourishment to regain her strength. I decided to press the issue, or we’d just waste away together in the bed.

I kissed her shoulder and whispered her name. “Time to wake up, sleepyhead.”

She pushed back against me, further trapping my wood between my abdomen and her derriere. “Again?” she asked.

I thought I heard a chuckle with the question, but I wasn’t sure if her intent was to offer or complain. The safe and gentlemanly thing was to give the decision back to her. “Entirely up to you,” I whispered back, my voice as deep as it was scratchy.

She stretched her arms and legs, cat-like, and turned only her head to kiss me. Through a smile and still connected to my lips, she said, “I wouldn’t refuse.”

Good enough for me.

Teasing her with my fingers, I discovered that she was ready for me. I entered her slowly, gently, from behind, still tucked tightly against her back. I caressed her breasts with one hand while the other gently circled her clit. She hummed softly as I languidly kissed her neck and shoulders. (She really had an incredibly lovely body.) My hips kept up a slow and steady rhythm until I could feel her breath hitching and her legs tensing. It hadn’t taken me very long to learn her responses, and I knew she was close. I increased my speed and intensity slightly at first, then a bit more, until she was gasping her pleasure. The ripples in her core were enough for me, and I buried myself inside her one more time, as fully as I could, my own orgasm coming in what seemed like never-ending waves.

Although my post-coital haze beckoned sleep, I really needed to get up and moving. When she turned in my arms and we kissed, I gave her a love-tap on her butt. “Woman, I need to get up and shower. Food,” I grunted when she poked my ribs, “is also required.” I kissed her one more time, then playfully shoved her away.

“You’re welcome to join me, but I’m going to wash up.”

She laughed. “The only way the two of us will squeeze into that shower is if we’re connected at the hip.”

She wasn’t wrong about that. I shrugged and grinned. “Up to you.”

Even connected, it was a very tight fit.

*****

By the time we were finally dressed, it was approaching five o’clock. Although it was a bit early for traditional supper, there was no way either of us could wait any longer for some sustenance. A meager snack of biscuits and jam had forestalled collapse, but just barely. We agreed to find a pub and, grabbing some cash and my wand, we prepared to leave. Just as she opened the door into the hallway, I realized that I hadn’t cast my Glamours. I’d been “me” for almost two full days. Sighing deeply, I paused to set them in place, then followed her out of the room.

She looked at me curiously as I jogged a few steps to join her. “Why do you do that?”

“What? The Glamours?” 

“Yeah. No one knows you here. It’s been months since you were declared presumed dead, and even if you hadn’t been, the probability that anyone would search for you in Liverpool is just about nil,” she argued.

She wasn’t wrong, but she also wasn’t entirely right. “All of that is true, with one exception. They do know me here, but as Drew. If I gave up that persona, I’d have to start all over again. It’s not something I’m eager to do,” I asserted.

She scoffed at me. “Seriously, Draco, the only people who ‘know’ you are the two old men at the desk. I doubt they’d even register a difference. They’d probably just think you dyed your hair.”

I blinked at her owlishly. Yet again, she wasn’t wrong. I also noted that she’d been observant enough – and visited me often enough – that she’d taken account of the brothers who ran this shabby establishment. In a passable imitation of one of the gents, I grunted something that was supposed to be, “I’ll think about it,” and ushered her out of the lobby onto the sidewalk.

Being rather famished, I wasn’t fussy about where we ate, so I guided her toward the first pub I saw that wasn’t more bar than dining establishment. A pint with my meal was a given, but I was not eager to get drunk, for once. We selected a table – the choice being rather broad as there was only one other person seated at the bar – and a waitress approached us with menus in hand.

“Specials are on the board, luvs. Anything to drink for ye?” she offered.

I requested the pint and Hermione ordered tea. “I’m Alice if you need anything. I’ll give you a minute to make your decision,” she said as she departed to retrieve our drinks.

Five minutes later, we’d placed our orders and were sipping our beverages while awaiting our supper. For all that I’d learned about Hermione in the last couple of days, there were still things I didn’t know and about which I was curious. She’d told me she had some money from an inheritance, but that was not enough to understand her circumstances.

I began my questions rather abruptly. “Where are you living when you’re not hanging out with me?”

She seemed surprised that I wanted to know. “Oh, uh, I’ve got a small flat about eight blocks from here. Why?”

I shifted uncomfortably. The thoughts were just jelling in my head and I wasn’t quite sure how to broach the topic. “Well, you see, my room is a single. The owner has been a bit lax about the rules, but he told me that if you stay overnight, he’ll have to charge me double.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but I shushed her. “It’s not a problem, especially if you didn’t have a place to stay. I just want to be able to, uh, budget,” I added lamely. “We need to spend time together, and that appears to include, uh, overnights.”

Our conversation stalled when Alice deposited our meals at our table, cottage pie for her and bangers and mash for me. We were both so hungry that we tucked in for several minutes before resuming our discussion. Finally, though, it was Hermione who broke the silence.

“No offense, Draco, but your place is a dump,” she said, dipping a chunk of crusty bread into the gravy on her plate.

I couldn’t disagree. It was rather squalid. “It was what I could find on short notice without draining all of my cash,” I excused. “My family may be wealthy, but my personal resources are limited, unless I want to take the risk of heading to a Gringotts branch. Somehow, I don’t think that’s a wise choice.”

“What did you do? Hoard money before you left?” she asked.

“That’s exactly what I did. Saved my allowance for more than half the year, and made a few withdrawals from the bank when I had the opportunity. I’ve still got a sizeable chunk in my vault, and a couple of inheritances from my grandparents. If I’ve been declared dead, though, I doubt I’d be able to access them.”

“Hmm. You have a point there. I guess the operative concern is your actual status. The last I’d heard was that you were presumed dead. Of course, it’s possible that they’ve changed your status to legally dead, but I just don’t know. I do know there’s a substantial difference from a legal standpoint. If you went into the bank, they’d just take a reading of your magical core to prove your identity, wouldn’t they?”

“Yes, and I do have my key, but that only gives me access to the physical vault in the Diagon Alley branch. It would support my identity claim, and they’d give me the funds I asked for, but that would then be removed from my main vault. There’s good and bad news with that. Since I’m legally an adult, I don’t need my parents’ permission for withdrawals, but my father is a co-signatory on the account. They would notify him of any transactions.”

“That would be an issue, if it’s still your intent not to communicate with them,” she agreed.

“It wouldn’t immediately reveal my location, obviously, but it would let him know that I’d deliberately left and give them at least a general idea where to look for me,” I added.

She had a puzzled look on her face and took a moment to gather her thoughts. “But… what if he is in Azkaban? Would he still be notified there?”

I hadn’t thought of that. “Well, no. A sentence in Azkaban generally removes those kinds of rights and responsibilities. At least, I think that’s the case.”

“Then, who would be notified, if anyone?” she challenged.

“Good question. On all other estate issues, it would have been me, if I were still in the picture. It would have to be whomever he designated. I’d presume that would be my mother, as long as she wasn’t in the next cell,” I postulated. “In that case, I’d bet on it being a family solicitor.”

Her eyes widened for a moment and she seemed a bit stunned. “Draco,” she began, “are your parents aware of the Black Family Tree tapestry?”

“The what?” I had no idea what she was talking about and told her so.

“When you said ‘picture’ I remembered that I’d seen your image as a descendant of Narcissa Black Malfoy on the tapestry. When someone dies, the date of death is automatically added to the tapestry,” she informed me.

“So… they either aren’t aware of the tapestry, haven’t bothered to check, or aren’t able to, for whatever reason,” I concluded.

“It’s in Harry’s house, which is under a renewed Fidelius charm. I used to have access, but that was when the house was serving as the headquarters for the Order. Obviously, that access was revoked when I was banished. I don’t know who the secret keeper is, but that person would have had to invite one or both of your parents to see it. It’s very possible that Harry hasn’t even bothered to look, with how little time he stayed there,” she recounted. “He spent all his time with the Weasleys, then moved into his father’s family estate near Godric’s Hollow. At least, that’s what I heard.”

“So the mystery of my existence could be easily solved,” I concluded. “That doesn’t make me happy, I hate to tell you.”

“I didn’t think it would, but it seemed important that you know. I’m sorry it didn’t dawn on me earlier,” she apologized.

“Don’t be silly. Not your fault, and not specifically your problem, although us hanging around together could complicate things a bit,” I observed. (Me and my big mouth.)

She seemed to take that as a rejection, based on her next words. “I won’t trouble you any longer, then. Now that I understand the problem, I can find my way out of Great Britain and reclaim a wand somewhere.” She pulled back physically, almost as though she were planning to leave right then.

I reached out and grasped her wrist before she could contemplate an escape. “Oh, no, you don’t. I won’t ever keep you with me against your will, but I sure as hell won’t ask you to leave just because things get a little more complex. We need each other, Granger. I need you just as much as you need me, and I can think of a half-dozen ways to solve this – together - right off the top of my head.”

“But…”

“No ‘but.’ I, uh, kind of like having you around. I think we could be… helpful to one another. Let’s think this through before anyone makes any rash decisions,” I suggested, hoping that it didn’t sound as pathetic as begging.

Knowing her well enough to recognize her ingrained trait of stubbornness, I must confess that I was pleasantly surprised when she relaxed her posture and her attitude. “Only if you’re…”

I interrupted before she could add whatever qualifier was about to be spoken. “I’m sure. If they haven’t thought of it to this point, they probably won’t. They may not even be free to do that. The point is, I’ve been gone for nearly eight months. To your point earlier about my Glamours, it may be time to relax a bit and start figuring out how to live the rest of my life. Our lives,” I amended, though I’m not sure why that was so important to emphasize.

“What do you suggest we do, then?” she asked.

I only paused for a moment before laying out my thoughts. The outline had been brewing for a few hours, since I knew she had survived the overdose. It was sooner than I’d intended to bring it up, but our conversation had forced the issue. “I think we should consider pooling our resources and sticking together, at least for a while.” I held my breath while I waited for her to weigh my proposal and respond. She gave me an answer more quickly than I’d anticipated.

“That’s not the worst idea I’ve ever heard.”

While not a ringing endorsement, she also hadn’t told me I was barmy. “Well, okay, then. We need to work out the logistics,” I suggested.

“What did you have in mind, specifically?”

“I think we have a little time to work out a broader plan, but maybe we should consider sharing our living space for now. Just until we figure out where to go from here,” I qualified. I would have been just as happy to abandon England altogether, right that moment, but I thought she’d need a little longer to come to the same conclusion. There were also practical considerations, such as finding a way to retrieve whatever might be left of my inheritance. I decided that could only be done once I – we – were ready to leave town permanently. I refused to consider the fact that, once she’d replaced her wand, she’d no longer need to be near me. Whether she would want to was an entirely different conversation. I realized then that I wanted to postpone that for as long as possible.

“You could stay at my place for now. I’m sure I could work something out with the old men,” I offered.

She rolled her eyes. “No offense, Draco, but my place is a bit nicer than yours. Not a lot, but enough. I have a kitchenette, at least, and a much cleaner bathroom. There’s even a small lounge. And my bed is bigger. Definitely cleaner.” She wrinkled her nose at that thought.

I looked at her incredulously. “How’d you afford a place like that? No offense, as you say, but I’ve always assumed that I had a lot more, uh, resources than you might.”

She chuckled. “Well, as a Muggle-born, I probably know more about navigating the system than you do, for one thing. For another, I told you that I had an inheritance. I sold my parents’ home and business. They weren’t paupers, by any stretch of the imagination. I’m not wealthy at a Malfoy level, not even close, but I’m not destitute, at least when it comes to cash. The truth is that I probably have access to more liquid assets than you do, right now.”

My parents had always taught me that it was crass to talk about one’s money, but this was a situation that seemed to require some honesty. If we were planning to move in together, we needed to get practical about this. The thought of “moving in” had my head spinning, I must confess.

“Just to be clear, I do have a good chunk of money with me. That’s not to say that I haven’t pissed a lot of it away in the last few months, but I’ve still got more than half of it, maybe closer to two-thirds of what I left with. It’s all transfigured into books so that it’s less vulnerable to theft. And I’ve got a substantial supply of Galleons, too. I just don’t have an easy way to convert them to Muggle currency right now. You know all those tins of lemon drops? All gold,” I shared. “I loathe lemon drops.”

I thought she was going to choke, she was sputtering so hard. Finally, she regained control of herself. “You’ve got that much money and you’re living in that pit?”

I shrugged. “It’s what I could find at the time. As you say, I don’t know the system very well. This was easy and available, and then it was simpler to stay then to find something else. I’ve only got another week and a half on my current lease, so the timing couldn’t be better, if we decide to, uh, move over to your place.”

“Would you like to see if before you make a decision?” she offered.

I smirked at her, something I’m not sure she appreciated. “Are you inviting me over for a nightcap, Miss Granger?” I teased.

She glared at me. “Don’t push your luck. I’m feeling pretty good right now, and I don’t need your, uh, services for a while.”

I took her hand across the table, the first time I’d done something like that (certainly in public). “I suppose that three times in one day should hold you over for a few hours,” I agreed, my voice low and quiet. No need to humiliate ourselves by broadcasting our private business. It also hadn’t escaped my notice that the tension in her shoulders lessened as soon as I touched her. There was that bubble again.

“Come on. I’ll get the check and we can go check out your flat. I’ll even make the tea and we can cuddle up for a while,” I suggested.

She nodded, but her eyes weren’t as bright as they had been even a half hour earlier. It seemed to me that she wasn’t feeling quite as well as she’d claimed. It had been just over two hours since we’d… connected. If the effects wore off that quickly, it was no wonder that she’d been using to minimize the pain. As pleasant as the thought may have been, we couldn’t spend all day fucking. Taking that into account, it was likely that any plan to decamp to another wizarding community outside of Great Britain would need to happen sooner rather than later. The “together” part would be the tricky piece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your feedback is welcome!


	18. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco makes a big decision.

After I settled the check, we walked to her flat in silence. I could tell, though, by the way she wrapped her arm around my waist and snuggled into my side that she wasn’t feeling quite up to par. Her place was a second-floor walk-up, and while it was certainly not a palace, she hadn’t exaggerated when she said it was a step (maybe three) up from my pitiful excuse for a home.

It was undoubtedly cleaner and significantly more spacious. The kitchen was tiny but functional, with a two-burner stovetop, a small oven, a half-sized refrigerator, and a single stainless steel sink. There were even four cupboards and two drawers, where I assumed she stored her dry goods, cooking implements, and dishes. (Yes, I’d lived in the Muggle world for long enough that I knew what all of those appliances were, if not how to competently use them.) She gave me a brief tour – the place was only so big – and I must admit that I was practically salivating over the size and relative luxury of her bathroom. Real ceramic tile and a full-size tub seemed too good to be true after so many months of my own dilapidated lavatory.

The final stop was her bedroom, and as she’d said, it featured a queen-sized bed. The linens were a soft blue and the pillows seemed to out-do even the ones I’d magically enhanced. I could get comfy there in a jiffy. She interrupted my inspection with a question.

“What do you think?”

“What’s not to like? It’s much better than my dump, without a doubt,” I answered.

“So…”

“Are you sure you want me around all the time? We’re just getting to know each other, and this would be a pretty intimate living situation,” I cautioned. “It would be a huge change of lifestyles for both of us.”

“I agree, and don’t you think that’s just what both of us needs right now? Something different from what we’ve been doing?” she retorted. “If either of us stays on the paths we’ve been following, we’ll end up dead. Three weeks ago, I wouldn’t have cared, but now I feel like I have some hope. Thanks to you, I have hope,” she repeated. “I want you to have hope, too.”

No pressure there, right? Yet again, she wasn’t wrong, though. It was the first time in my life that someone was relying on me, and I found that the prospect wasn’t as daunting as I’d feared it would be. I liked that I had someone to care for. I liked that she needed me. It was all new to me, but it was a good new. It made me feel like I was worth something. Real worth, not inherited worth. Not because I carried a certain last name or because my vaults were overflowing with Galleons. Just for me, Draco Malfoy, the person. Talk about a kick in the head.

“Okay, so we can have hope together,” I agreed quietly. “If we’re going to do this, should we talk about ground rules?”

“Like what?”

“Everything. Food, money, use of magic, sex… other recreation. We need to decide what’s fair game, what’s off limits, and what’s up for negotiation as situations warrant,” I suggested.

“How about this? We’ll split the expenses for now. My utilities are included in the rent, and that’s paid up through the end of next month. Personal things should be covered individually, I think. We can shop for food together and split the bill. If we’re still here, you cover the next month’s rent. How does that sound?”

“Done. No issues on any of that. The rest is where things could potentially be more complicated, though. What do you think?”

“I think the more you use magic, the better. It would probably help to stabilize my core to be around more constant casting. Maybe even set wards so that there’s a constant level in the flat,” she proposed.

“That’s a good idea. And you should feel free to use my wand whenever you want,” I offered. I removed the enchantments that hid its true appearance.

“Um, about that,” she said hesitantly as she stared at it. “Your wand looks familiar, but I know it’s not the wand you originally used.”

I stopped her before she could continue. “I took it from someone at Hogwarts after I lost mine in the… fire. The person was deceased already. I believe she was a Gryffindor, but I don’t remember her name. Long, blonde hair, kind of pretty, a bit boy-crazy…”

Hermione gasped then. “Oh Merlin. That had to be Lavender,” she realized.

“Yes,” I agreed. “I think that’s right. I was respectful when I took it. I thanked her spirit.”

She shook her head. “Don’t worry about that. I know you only did what you had to in order to survive. I just… thought I knew the wand.” Her words were forgiving, but I could tell that she had been troubled by the realization that we would both be using her deceased friend’s wand, at least for a time.

She was a trooper, though, and took a deep breath before continuing. “That leaves sex and recreation – which I assume to mean alcohol and drugs.”

I nodded. “I won’t lie and say that I don’t enjoy getting buzzed and high, but the truth is that I’ve felt less of a need to do that since we’ve, uh, been hanging out together.”

“Nothing like watching someone overdose to put you off,” she noted drily.

“If we’re going to be honest, you should know that I’ve had my own close calls. I’ve been using pretty heavily, Hermione. It’s only when I’ve got something else to occupy my attention that I leave that shite alone.

“The thing is,” I continued, “I don’t want us to follow each other into the pits of drug and drinking hell. I’m capable of enjoying a pint or a shot now and again without needing it, but I’m cutting out the drugs entirely. I can’t tell you what to do, but I hope you’ll make the same decision. And the truth is, I don’t know if I can stay with you if you keep using.” I held my breath and waited for her to tell me to get the hell out.

Instead, she smiled. “Good. That’s not what I wanted. I did what I did because I saw no alternative. I couldn’t handle the pain in any other way. Now, I know what’s wrong, and we’re going to figure out a way to deal with it permanently at some point in the very near future.”

I can’t tell you how relieved I was to hear her say the first part. The second half was a bit more concerning, but I couldn’t have told you specifically why. I just knew that I didn’t want us to part ways quite so quickly. Rather than deal with that head-on, I raised the final topic we hadn’t covered.

“So, sex.”

She actually blushed, and I had all I could do not to laugh. After everything we’d done together, she was going shy on me. “I know you have a pretty big, uh, appetite. We don’t have any claim on each other, so I guess if you want other partners, I’m not going to stop you. Just… be sure you stay clean.”

At that, I did laugh. “Hermione, with how often you seem to need, uh, core contact, you are more than enough for me. I’m not interested in fucking around just for the sake of it. I’ve done more than my share of that already. I think we can keep each other fully satisfied. If something else comes up, we’ll discuss it. For now, it’s on the shelf.”

“Fair enough. I think I won’t be seeking out other partners, just so you know. I can’t tell you how unhappy and uncomfortable I’ve been with my behavior; I just didn’t know how else to make it through the day,” she said, her voice small and full of remorse.

“We’re both survivors, Hermione,” I remember telling her. “We’ve done what we had to so that we’d get to the next sunrise, sometimes counter to logic. I think if we stay focused on helping each other, we might even help ourselves. But let’s not get ahead of things. One day at a time.”

I recall that her smile seemed a bit grim. There was something more on her mind, but when I asked, she denied any issues. “It’s getting late,” she observed. “Do you want to go back to pick up a few things from your place, or just pack up tomorrow?”

The decision, at least in her mind, had apparently been made. It’s not that I disagreed; in fact, I thought it was a splendid idea. I guess it was the assumption that rankled, at least a little. Then I remembered exactly with whom I was dealing. She’d always been a take-charge, get-out-of-my-way-or-be-trampled kind of girl. This was more like the Hermione Granger I’d always known. That made me happier than I could say. At least on some level, she wasn’t completely lost. If that was true, there really was hope that we could find our way – either together or separately – out of the bleak existence we’d each been living since the end of the war.

I figured that there were a few things I probably would need – my hoard of cash among them – so I asked her if she’d be okay alone for an hour or so. She looked terrified at the prospect, but claimed that she would be fine. Thinking back to what we’d talked about, I offered to cast a few wards so that there’d be magical residue surrounding her during my absence. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a look of relief on a person’s face. That meant that she wasn’t feeling as well as she pretended. If I changed my mind now, though, she’d protest, and there’d be drama that neither of us needed.

I cast a couple of protection wards, a perimeter alarm ward, and a handful of house-keeping charms – innocuous things like dusting and air-freshening that weren’t strictly necessary, but which would keep the magical residue level a bit higher than the wards alone. I kissed her briefly (the first time I’d done that outside of having sex), and promised to return as quickly as I could. I had a strong idea about what we’d need to do later, and I didn’t want her to have to wait any longer than necessary. That I wasn’t exactly dreading the idea was something I didn’t want to discuss, much less think about, particularly in light of the decisions we’d already made.

Her flat was only twelve blocks from mine, and I covered the distance rapidly. I took the stairs to my room two at a time because, as usual, the lift wasn’t working. Releasing the wards and protections, I opened the door and surveyed the room. I didn’t have time to pack everything, but I’d gathered the most important items and decided to return a day or two later for the rest. I retrieved my duffle bag from the back of the closet and began stuffing in all my “books” and tins of “lemon drops” first. Next came a couple of changes of clothes, my toiletries, and my collapsible cauldron. While I didn’t pack all of my ingredients, I did grab a few vials of prepared potions.

In the closet, I found the small bag in which I typically stored my drug supply. There wasn’t much in it – one packet of coke and one tab of molly. For a moment, I was tempted. It had been a few days since I’d been high. Then, I remembered the conversation Hermione and I had had barely an hour before about getting sober. I tossed the two items into the toilet and flushed, before I could talk myself out of it.

I felt that I’d gathered everything that was truly important, so I retrieved my broom, the last item that I wanted to keep with me, shrinking it and adding it to my duffle. I zipped the bag closed, slung it over my shoulder, and reset the wards as I left the room.

The portly proprietor raised an eyebrow as he saw me leaving. Since it was clear that he wanted to ask, I saved him the trouble. “I’ll be moving out in the next few days. Thanks for everything.”

He smirked at me. “Moving in with your girl?”

I blinked at him in surprise. These men missed nothing, apparently. “Yeah.”

He nodded curtly. “Good luck to you then. Remember to drop off the key when you leave for good.”

“Of course. Good night,” I said, giving him a respectful smile and walking away.

My errand and round-trip walk had taken all of an hour and twenty minutes, but when I returned to Hermione’s flat, it was clear that she was feeling poorly. While not at the level I’d witnessed in previous situations, I could see pain in the dullness of her eyes and the stiff set of her jaw. I wondered if the residual magic had helped at all, and how much worse off would she have been if it hadn’t been present. The hypothesis was not one I was willing to put to the test. I wished that I’d been able to leave my wand behind when I’d gone back to my room, but I’d needed it to release my wards and reset them. I wondered, then, why I hadn’t just invited her to join me. Hindsight is always perfect. (Speaking of… it only dawned on me hours later that I could have Apparated to my room and back to her flat rather than walking the whole way. I’d done so little of it during those months that I forgot I could.)

I dumped my duffle bag beside the door and sat next to her, taking her hand in mine. I could feel a wave of relaxation overtake her; how powerful and daunting that was at the same time. I leaned back into the thick, padded arm of the sofa, stretching out my legs and settling her between them, her back pressed tightly against my chest. I wrapped my arms around her ribs and she rested her head against my shoulder. Although her wavy hair was relatively well-contained, fly-away wisps tickled my jaw. “You feeling okay?” I asked.

She nodded, but didn’t speak. I heard her sigh, but as well as I was coming to know her (and how her body responded), I couldn’t tell for certain whether it was a sound of contentment or resignation. She was quiet, but she wasn’t shifting uncomfortably or complaining. I concluded that whatever discomfort she was feeling was manageable. I hoped that she’d eventually come to trust me enough to ask for what she needed.

In my absence, she’d cleared out a drawer in her dresser for me, and moved some things around to make space in the closet. She offered to help me put away my things after we’d sat together for about an hour, just listening to some soothing music she’d found on the wireless. (Radio. I know. Some habits die harder than others.) Together, it took us about twenty minutes to get everything organized. I noticed how she looked longingly at my cauldron. Even without her wand, brewing potions was something she could do fairly well. Mine could always be used for finishing and stirring steps, but it just emphasized once more how much she needed to find a new one of her own. Unless we could find one on the UnderMarket (an especially intimidating task, given that I was still incognito and she was formally banned), it would mean that we’d have to travel out of the country. One plan at a time, I remember telling myself.

By the time our joint organizing mission was complete, it was getting late, and although we’d slept a good part of the day, we had to do something to get our sleep cycles back on a more normal schedule. I proposed that we get ready for bed and just try to relax. Even if we managed to sleep for four or five hours between midnight and dawn, it would help with reestablishing our rhythms. I suggested that maybe a warm bath would be helpful in making her sleepy, and she agreed. As she undressed, I drew her bath, using heating charms rather than just hot tap water to ensure that she felt the magic. Being physically immersed in something charmed would be good for her, I thought.

When she slipped into the tub, I dimmed the electric lights and added floating candles to the room. I perfumed the air with the magical scent of lilacs, something my mother had always told me was particularly soothing. Seeing her respond so gratefully to the little things I did to make her more comfortable only made me want to do more for her. This was a very new experience for me, caring about how someone else felt and doing my utmost to be supportive. It felt good. I felt useful.

I gave her a few minutes to herself, then rejoined her in the bathroom. The tub was situated in such a way that I could sit on the lid of the toilet and reach her head and upper body. I offered to brush her hair, which she’d piled on top of her head with a plastic clip that resembled some kind of claw. How that could be comfortable, I had no earthly clue. When she nodded and hummed, I took that as an affirmative response, and I fumbled for only a few seconds before I figured out how to release the contraption that held her mane off her neck. I brushed gently from her scalp to the tips of her curls for at least ten minutes. With each stroke, it seemed that her breathing evened out further and the tension she’d been holding in her neck and shoulders melted away.

Although the weather outside was still quite chilly, Hermione’s flat, like mine, was on the warm side of comfortable. The steam in the room had me sweating. When I stripped off my jumper, she turned at looked at me curiously.

“What?” I asked.

“Are you planning to join me?” she wondered.

“That wasn’t my specific intention. It’s just awfully warm in here,” I asserted. “Why?”

“Oh,” she said, sounding just slightly disappointed.

I swallowed a breath. “I had no ulterior motive, but if you want me to join you…” I let the thought trail off for her own interpretation.

Rather than answer immediately, she got up from the tub, grabbing the large towel from the counter and wrapping it around her body. “I’m getting pretty pruney. As wonderfully relaxing as that was, I just can’t stay submerged any longer.” When she turned back to face me, her expression was warm and happy. I don’t know why, but I was worried about whether she’d been offended. The smartest thing would have been to ask her, I suppose, but I chose to interpret her mood from her actions rather than being blunt about it. I guess all those years of training in the “social graces” hadn’t quite left me; whether or not that was good for a relationship on the verge of becoming intimate – in more than just the physical sense – is another discussion entirely.

I told her that I was going to take a quick shower before going to bed. The “quick” part was no lie. I managed to wash, rinse, and dry off in under five minutes. When I entered the bedroom, she was already under the covers. I’d put on a clean pair of boxers, and I was surprised when I joined her between the sheets to find that she hadn’t bothered with nightclothes. The letch in me wanted to smirk. The part of me that was trying to be an adult about our arrangement was wondering if she needed me. The insecure bloke was wondering whether she wanted me.

Since it was our first night in her bed, something told me I should let her take the lead. The dynamic between us was shifting, moment by moment, it seemed. I must admit that I was a bit surprised, and maybe a little disappointed, that we didn’t have sex before she fell asleep that night. It was an even bigger shock, then, when I awakened a few hours later to find her limbs completely entwined with mine and that, somewhere along the way, my boxers had disappeared. I wasn’t sure an observer could tell which arms and legs belonged to whom, if it weren’t for the fine dusting of blond hair on mine and the contrasting smoothness of hers. In the wee hours, that was enough to stoke my need for her, whatever its source. We made love slowly and deeply as the sun rose. And I’d never had a better night’s sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, your feedback is welcome!


	19. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domestic bliss? Maybe. Maybe not. Also, please be aware that there's a segment here that might make some uncomfortable. It will be rather obvious when you get to it. Feel free to skip over that little section, but... the concepts presented are entirely accurate.

We spent the next three weeks getting accustomed to sharing not only our living space, but our lives. It became clear almost instantly that our arrangement was more than just a matter of convenience or necessity. Although we’d known each other for years, the intimate revelations of sharing everything from a breakfast table to a bathroom led to discoveries that, dare I say, surprised and amused me. Her own reactions are her story to tell; I’ve learned that it’s not wise to put words in Hermione Granger’s mouth.

I learned that she was good company, far funnier than I’d ever imagined, whip-smart (that bit not really a surprise at all), and inquisitive without devolving into nosy. While I wouldn’t call her moody, she did have certain highs and lows. It dawned on me fairly quickly that they were related to one of two things: first, her physical discomfort over the on-going magical core corruption she suffered and second, the times when she felt the anxiety of being unproductive. She had so much natural energy, but the core corruption was horrifically draining. It meant that there were times when she couldn’t do much more than quietly sit. I tried to keep the levels of magic in the flat high, but we were in a Muggle building. If I cast too much, appliances stopped working, lights would flash and flicker, and a weird hum could be heard throughout the structure. It was a delicate balance.

The other method to keep her core stable was always an option, but we were already having sex, making love, whatever, twice a day in about twelve-hour intervals. I wouldn’t have objected to more, but she seemed to feel reluctant (maybe embarrassed) to ask for it. I tried to get her to understand that it wasn’t a matter of me “not minding” at all, but that I really enjoyed being with her. I’ve always said that I’m not a selfish lover – and I honestly believe that to be true – but I was somehow not clearly conveying to her that I wanted to be with her at least as much as she needed me to. Maybe it was her own mental block, but the message wasn’t quite clearing those hurdles.

Where things started to get a little strange was after about a week and a half of my moving in, I heard her muttering in exasperation from the other side of the bathroom door, followed by drawers opening and closing, a closet door squeaking then slamming, and a pronounced utterance of “Shit!” at a volume that carried clear throughout the flat. There was silence for about thirty seconds when I heard her call my name.

“You bellowed?” I teased from the other side of the door.

I swear, I could hear her rolling her eyes. “I’ve, uh, got a little problem,” she said, then fell silent.

Since I’m not a mind reader, especially through closed doors, I waited for a moment for her to elaborate and when that didn’t happen, I finally asked, “And what might that be?”

“I need you to run to the Boots for me,” she answered.

Okay. I’ve been to Boots quite a number of times, and though we were most often using magical forms of contraception, I could probably use a new box of condoms, which we did use now and then. No big deal. “Sure. What do you need?” (Looking back, I can’t believe I was that obtuse.)

She was quiet for another long stretch. “Tampons.”

Oh. Fuck me. “Are you, uh, sure there aren’t any under the sink?” I stalled. I mean, it wasn’t the first time I’d encountered the issue, but buying a lady’s feminine products was somewhat outside my experience.

“Positive.”

“And none in your nightstand or your handbag?” I pressed.

“Looked there before looking here. No luck,” she said, sounding as miserable as I was sure I was going to be once I undertook this mission on her behalf.

Well, there really was no choice, then. I wasn’t opposed to doing her a favor – not at all. It was just a bit embarrassing. It’s not every day that an eighteen-year-old male waltzes into the apothecary to buy such things. (I’ve since come to learn that this kind of thing goes with the territory of being in a relationship. It might have been the first time, but it sure as shit wasn’t to be the last.) Then again, my chronological age was far lower than my emotional age, I thought. There were days I felt like I was forty. I sighed in resignation. “Hermione, I’ve never bought those, obviously, so you’re going to need to tell me exactly what you need.”

“Open the door,” she instructed. While she was sitting on the john, there was nothing indecent about it. Not that it mattered. Crikey, I’d seen her naked a few dozen times by that point. She pointed toward the cabinet under the sink. “There’s an empty box there. Just buy the same thing.”

Well, that was sensible. I tore off the top flap that provided all the identifying information I’d need and set off on my task. Twenty minutes and £9 later, I was back with my condoms and the supply of feminine hygiene product she needed, and she was needlessly grateful. I mean, what kind of arse would I have been if I’d refused? All of that, though, was just precursor to the next five very complicated days.

Knowing that women often have hormonal swings during their cycles and living with them, I found, were two different things. Please don’t misunderstand; I’m not saying that I was being insensitive to her needs at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. I could see that she was feeling miserable and wanted to do what I could to help. I gave her my wand so that she could cast warming charms on her abdomen, made sure she had the Muggle medicine she requested to relieve the pain (why a potion wouldn’t have worked is beyond me), and even massaged her back and stomach when she complained of cramps.

The basic problems associated with menstruation were worsened, though, by her core issues. Her innate magic couldn’t fend off the unpleasant hormones as they would have, at least to some degree, if her core were intact. (This was not something I knew. She told me, having deduced it when the symptoms she experienced became significantly worse after she’d been stripped of her wand.) She seemed squeamish about having intercourse during that time, but not having that exchange of magical energy was clearly making her immensely uncomfortable. I didn’t care; I’d had sex with menstruating women once or twice. It could be a little messy, but that could easily be dealt with, particularly for magical folk. The benefits far outweighed the negatives, I thought, and I was, if not eager, certainly very willing. Someone - probably Pansy - had once told me that orgasms during menstruation eased cramps and released hormones that counteracted some of the other discomforts of that time. When I asked to confirm what I’d recalled, Hermione verified that it was true. Since those were positive results and she was also feeling the core corruption effects, I wheedled and cajoled her for three days until she finally gave in. And yes, I wanted her, regardless of any slight inconvenience that might come from the circumstances.

To appease her reluctance over any… untidiness, I made sure we had a thick towel on the bed and that I was wearing a condom. (See, I told you there were times they came in handy.) I cuddled with her for almost an hour before we even attempted any kind of sex, massaging away to the best of my ability any aches or pains in her back and abdomen. When she was fully relaxed, I kissed her, trying to demonstrate that I cared about how she was feeling and wanted to help her more than I wanted to get laid. While I was well aware that she normally loved to have her breasts caressed, kissed, and suckled, I could see that even a delicate touch was too much; they were oversensitive and painful. I cast minimal pain-relieving and swelling reduction charms on them to ease any discomfort. It wasn’t so that I could play with them, because I didn’t. I wanted her to see that I was trying to truly take care of her.

I used my fingers to gently circle her clit, ensuring that she came at least once before I entered her. When I did, her passage felt like the most perfect place the gods had ever created. Even through the condom, I could feel a different kind of grasp around my erection and a slickness that was impossible to describe. As much as I wanted it to be all about her, there was no doubt that I was going to need every ounce of self-control not to go off too fast. That condom was probably a godsend; had I felt what I did against my bare cock, it would have been all over in two strokes. I filled her slowly and deliberately, trying to pay attention to how she was feeling and whether she was getting close. I reached between us to use my fingers on her clit again, providing additional stimulation. I needed her to come first, then I’d let go. I could feel the tension building in her arms and legs, and in the speed and depth of her breathing. It took maybe four or five more strokes for her to fall over the edge and, somehow, I’d managed to hang on. When the ripples of her orgasm had waned, I pulled out for a moment and quickly removed the condom. I didn’t care if it was messy; I wanted to feel her in all her female glory. Besides that, I knew that the small amount of additional magic in my ejaculation would be good for her. Really. It sure as fuck was good for me. It was so powerful that I didn’t care if I was soaked to my navel in whatever came from her body. I remember telling her that there was never, ever, again a need for her to deny either of us the incredible pleasure of period sex. She never did.

Intimacy took many other forms, too. There were many nights when we cuddled on the sofa or in bed, just whispering to each other about everything, anything, and nothing. I confessed more than one sin, as did she, and we found universal forgiveness in the gentle stroke of a cheek or the wiping of a stray tear. We were coming to know each other on the deepest of levels – our hopes, our dreams, our fears. It was remarkable to me that so many of them were in alignment. Whatever the Fates had done to bring us both so low and to this place, it was plain that someone knew what they were doing. But shared beliefs, goals, and emotions – even love – were not always enough to build a future with another person. There were still many hurdles to overcome before we could think about whether the comfort we’d found in each other during those early weeks was enough to last for a few months, never mind a lifetime. I know that I didn’t have a lot of doubts or concerns, but I did have a few. I assumed that hers would be more plentiful and monumental.

I think that there had been so much upheaval in both of our lives over such a short period (including our own connection), that we were both reluctant to talk about next steps too soon. Looming over us was the need to solve, long-term, the issue of her magical core corruption. I’d be content to make love to her twice a day for as long as it was needed, but we both knew it was only a stopgap measure. It didn’t solve the problem, it only masked the symptoms. Having that hanging over her head had to create a huge amount of anxiety. After all, she had no guarantee, other than my word, that I’d still be there on any given morning when she awoke. My assurances to the contrary, I know that she worried about what would happen if she found herself alone again, without the support of a magical partner.

Although I reminded her that she now knew the source – and the solution – to the problem, she clearly didn’t want to face it on her own. What I didn’t know was what lay behind that fear. I hoped that it was because she’d come to care for me beyond being a source for her magical corrections. It would be many months before I had a definitive answer to that question. Hermione freely shared many things – her opinions, her possessions, her laughter, even her body – with me. Her heart was more carefully guarded.

I understood why, truly I did. She’d been betrayed in most brutal fashion by two men whom she thought loved her as much as she did them. She’d laid her life on the line for both of them countless times, and they’d repaid her with treachery of the very worst kind. I often had the feeling that she was waiting for me to stab her in the back, so I was extraordinarily careful to behave in ways that were worthy of her trust. I’m not sure why that was so important to me at that stage, but it was. My own feelings had been hard to define, but I knew that she had become very special to me – that I preferred spending time with her rather than anyone else, or certainly to my own solitary company. I rarely went out alone, choosing her company either in the flat or at my side whenever either of us felt like an evening of music or a pub meal.

We lived together in that tiny flat for almost three months before the issue of what came next was seriously raised. I like to think that some of the reason for the delay was that we were content getting to know one another and finding some measure of domestic bliss. The reality was probably closer to each of us figuring out whether we were compatible enough – and committed enough – with the other to make any sort of future plans together. We both knew, on some level, that if we didn’t stay together, we’d each be completely alone again. Not an appealing prospect, at least for me. I was also mature enough to know that I needed to be honest with myself and with her about whether our partnership – relationship – was one of convenience or one of choice. That didn’t necessarily mean that a convenient relationship would have been rejected, but I believed that one must enter these things with one’s eyes wide open. It also didn’t mean that a relationship of choice wasn’t also mutually advantageous for practical reasons as much as emotional ones.

On a Friday night in late February, approaching two years since the fateful final battle, we sat down to a homemade dinner of baked cod, steamed string beans, and jacket potatoes. (Hermione was a rather decent cook, and she taught me a bit here and there, too. I learned to make killer omelets and crepes.) While we were washing up, I blurted out, without preface or warning, a question that had been bubbling for days.

“If we were to leave Liverpool, have you given any thought to where you would want to go?”

She blinked at me in surprise, almost dropping the plate she was drying. “Uh, not in any depth or detail. Why?”

I shrugged, finished rinsing the final glass and set it on the rack to drip. “No particular reason. We haven’t talked for a while about future plans, so I was just wondering if it had been on your mind.” I was very deliberate not to use the adjective “our” in relations to said plans. I wanted her opinion free of suggestion or subtle influence. That may have been a miscalculation, as she seemed to interpret the question as individualized. My preface, though, had included the “we.”

“You’re free to do whatever you wish,” she said, her tone flat. “If your wanderlust has kicked in, I’ll manage just fine.”

I know my expression must have been grim. “Why do you do that, Hermione? I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to.” It annoyed and frustrated me that she’d assume I would abandon her at the first chance, but as I’ve stated, I understood where the sentiment originated.

She stood there with the dish towel in hand, looking at her feet and biting her lip. (I hated when she did that; thank Merlin it didn’t happen often. It made her look indecisive and weak, neither of which were usually the case.) “I’m sorry. I guess I still expect duplicity at every turn.”

“Have I ever – since we’ve reconnected – given you reason to doubt my sincerity?” I challenged.

She shook her head and finally looked at me. I think she saw something in my expression that I’d either not previously shown or she hadn’t noticed, because she sighed, smiled, and shook her body from head to toe, as though to rid herself of an unwanted layer of dust. On some level, it was rather amusing. “No, not even for a minute,” she acknowledged.

“So I repeat my question. Have you thought about where we should consider going?” Although I was a bit perturbed that she’d been so defensive, I tried to keep it out of my tone. I wanted a conversation, not an argument.

“Not really. I’m not all that familiar with other magical cities, except the one in Paris. My grandmother was born near there and I do speak a pretty decent French, but I’ve always assumed that it would be very expensive to live.”

She was right about that and I told her so. “There are other magical cities in France, but that’s not the only choice,” I said.

“I’m going to need to rely on you for information, then,” she stated.

“Off the top of my head, there are about fifteen good-sized magical cities in Europe, with a somewhat larger number of smaller towns and settlements, maybe forty or so. If you were open to going overseas, there are at least a dozen in North America and more than that in South America. Asia has about thirty and Africa about fifty. There are a handful in Australia, too. Lots of options, but there are advantages and concerns to consider for each, too.”

We spent the next twenty minutes reviewing the possibilities. Locations we ruled out included Spanish-speaking countries (neither of us had the language skills), all of the Commonwealth Nations including Australia, India, and Canada (the ban the Wizengamot placed on Hermione’s legal use of magic included all of these), Slavic countries (too cold), Asian and African locations (significant language and cultural differences), Germany, and Italy (although I spoke both languages passably, Hermione spoke neither).

Those we determined to still be possibilities included the US, Ireland, France, Belgium, Luxembourg, Monaco, and parts of Switzerland. Beyond the US and the Emerald Isle, all of the remaining nations were French-speaking, which made it workable for both of us.

“There are still plenty of options, so what should we do to narrow our choices further?” I asked.

“I think the most practical thing to consider next is money. Between the two of us, our liquid assets are probably enough to cover our living expenses for a couple of years, but a move will also cost a good chunk. We need to figure out how to either get access to funds that are currently tied up or find ways to earn more money,” she answered. “Do you agree?”

I did, and I told her so. In fact, this was the central question to establishing our direction, I thought. I must admit that I was getting particularly restless without having anything to do. If I was feeling that way, I imagine that Hermione was ready to tear her hair out. She rarely complained, but it seemed to me that she was always looking for something to occupy her time, even if it was simple household chores. I helped with those as much as possible, but I must admit that she was just better at it than me. (She was also very particular about certain things, such as the way laundry was folded. I got my fingers whacked more than once when I folded her t-shirts in half vertically rather than folding in the sleeves first. Still makes me laugh.)

The answers to this issue were more complicated than simply selecting a preferred location. There was still the fact that I was “presumed dead” – a misconception that I was not eager to correct. In order to access my vaults, however, I would have to reveal myself. The decision to do that would be much easier if I had an idea about what had happened to my parents. After much discussion and deliberation, Hermione and I agreed. We would have to make a trip to a wizarding city in order to do a little reconnaissance. Without the information we hoped to glean, we agreed that it would be nearly impossible for us to fulfill any of our plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your thoughts?


	20. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans for a visit to the wizarding world are hatched.

It had been nearly four months since I’d worn Glamour charms, coinciding with my final trip to the rooming house to retrieve the last of my belongings. It seemed, though, that it might be time to reinstate them, if the plan that Hermione and I had concocted were to succeed and we to emerge unscathed. We’d decided that one or both of us needed to make a trip to a wizarding town just north of Leeds in order to do a little reconnaissance about my parents’ situation and my own status. Anything we could glean about current conditions in the wizarding world would be a bonus. We were in the midst of a debate about the wisdom of her trying to join me, or staying behind while I tried to find out what I could. I was firmly in the “I plan to go it alone” camp, but I was trying not to remind her of the awful reality of her sentence.

“They can’t prevent me from just being in a magical place. At least, that was never explicitly part of the discussion. Can they do that?” The increasingly panicked undertone in her voice was not helping our deliberations.

I sighed and scrubbed my face with open palms. There was no way I could continue to vacillate about this; she needed to understand the truth. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but that’s exactly what it means. Your banishment. They probably didn’t explain it because they would have assumed that it was implicitly understood. At least within the wizarding United Kingdom, you are not allowed to even visit without escort. Because I’m ‘presumed dead’ – as far as we know – I’d seriously question whether I’d qualify as an acceptable escort, because someone with a valid registered wand has to vouch for you. The wand I have is the one I took from your friend after she was killed. I think I’m going to need to do this alone, at least for the first time, unless you’re willing to risk a stint in Azkaban.”

“They could do that?” she asked, sounding stunned.

“Could and would. If they’re still intent on making an example of you, anything you do that violates either the letter or the spirit of your sentence will be dealt with as harshly as they can. It’s obviously not enough for a Kiss, but I’d wager the rest of my Galleons that it would definitely get you locked up if you were found in a British magical location without authorization or permission,” I explained. I wasn’t trying to frighten her, but I wanted her to fully understand the potential consequences of an attempt to breach the terms of her sentence. 

“Even if I was just… there, not doing anything magical or using any magical item?” she probed, looking for a loophole that simply didn’t exist. Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest. I could easily see how frustrated and angry she was, but there was not a single town, city, or hamlet in the United Kingdom, duly registered as a magical enclave, that she could freely visit without consequence.

She sat there quietly, not exactly sulking but clearly not pleased. I could also see that she was thinking. The tell-tale sign was her furrowed brow, complete with the little vertical line right in the center of her forehead. “I use your wand here rather regularly, so why isn’t that a problem?” she asked, not unreasonably.

“Because we’re not in a magical community. They don’t inspect every stray spell performed in the Muggle world because there are always wizards and witches coming and going, not to mention those who visit for business or pleasure from other countries. If they suspected that the spells were being cast by a banned person, they’d be more likely to investigate. The minute you move that use to a magical town, they’d be all over you. Do you remember your magical signature being registered at some point?” I asked.

“Yes, at the beginning of the trial. They said it was to ensure my identity and that I wasn’t someone else under Polyjuice,” she recounted.

“Exactly. They wanted to make sure that you hadn’t paid someone off to impersonate you and skipped town before they could render judgment. And that would have been compared to the magical signature on file from your admittance to Hogwarts,” I reminded her. “There would now be a tag on that signature, and any time you so much as cross a magical barrier, your core signature will send the Aurors running for you.”

“So they are keeping tabs on me, but only if I happen to venture into magical areas,” she realized.

I confirmed her conclusion with a sympathetic, if grim, smile.

“What if…” she began, then trailed off and shook her head, rejecting whatever idea had crossed her mind before fully giving birth to it.

I stayed silent for a long while, letting her go through her list of possibilities, and saw her disappointment as each one evaporated. I wanted to be supportive, but I also didn’t want her to have false hope. “Hermione, love, stop torturing yourself over this. I’ll go on my own to Leeds, visit the library to read old issues of the Daily Prophet, and grab a current copy from a street vendor. I won’t even go to the apothecary, I’ll wear Glamours that disguise me even more than the ones I was using when we met, and I’ll cast Notice-Me-Not charms. I’ll be there two, three hours, tops. I’ll Apparate to Manchester and fly in on my broom from there. With travel, I’ll be gone no more than five hours.” I threw my arm around her and tugged her close, nuzzling her neck – that spot that I know drives her just a little bit out of her mind. “I’ll make love to you for an hour before I go, and you can have a little nap until I come back.”

She pushed me away with both hands. “Don’t you dare patronize me, Draco Malfoy, no matter how much I need or want to have sex with you!”

“I know you’re not happy about this, but there’s no need to take out your temper on me. I didn’t create the situation; I just explained it,” I defended.

“Temper? You think this is temper? Hah! I guess you never spent any time around Seamus Finnigan, did you? He’d throw stuff, blow things up, punch people – or walls – and scream at the top of his lungs. Always said he was letting his Irish out. I didn’t do anything of the sort, so don’t accuse me of unleashing my temper.”

Now, we’ve bickered, even argued (more than once – neither of us is perfect by a very long shot and we both are rather… strong-willed), and she was right. I had been patronizing, but I just didn’t want her to feel so badly about the situation. I pulled her back into my arms and kissed her briefly. “I’m sorry, Hermione. That wasn’t my intention. I just wanted you to know that I wasn’t forgetting about your needs in the process. And I certainly don’t want to see your Irish coming out. I’ve already seen enough evidence of its existence.”

She relaxed a bit in my arms, then pulled away again, staring at me. “What did you say?”

“Huh? I just said that I was sorry, and I wanted to…”

“No, not that. At the very end.”

“That I didn’t want to see your Irish coming out?”

“Yes! That’s it! Irish!” she shrieked. “That’s how we can do this together. We go to Ireland.” Her entire demeanor shifted in a flash. Her smile was bright and her expression was smug. “We do it together in that town near Dublin, where Seamus’ mother used to live.”

I thought about it for a few seconds and realized that there was no reason on earth that I could think of to refute her idea. I’d honestly forgotten that Ireland was a viable choice, although it was a much more substantial trip than going to Leeds. It really could work. “You may be onto something. It’s close enough to Great Britain that any news we’re looking for would still be available there, but it’s technically not part of the wizarding United Kingdom. It wouldn’t take all that long to get there, even if we went by Muggle transportation, and we wouldn’t need to be separated. We should still use Glamours, just to be safe, but it’s highly unlikely that we’d know anyone there. We could even stay overnight, if you wanted a little change of scenery for a day or two.”

“Let’s do it,” she said, clearly a decision rather than a suggestion.

Having no valid argument to the contrary, I agreed. “Of course. When do you want to go?”

It took us no more than fifteen minutes to decide that we’d leave on Thursday around noon, and another half-hour to find a hotel, book a reservation and schedule our passage. I’d rarely been so grateful for the simple tool of a Muggle telephone. The ferry trip over would take just over seven hours – a fair bit longer than magical transportation, but probably the safer choice to remain undetected - so we’d arrive in time to check into our room at Buswells Hotel, which was near the center of the city, and have a late dinner. The plan was to use the entire next day to do our research, stay over that night, and head home to Liverpool the next morning. Back then, security at border crossings was rather lax, and all we needed was a photo identification. Hermione had a valid one and I had the fake that I’d created many months earlier. I’d just needed to update the image to match the Glamour I cast. She also had one of those plastic Muggle cards to pay for the rooms and travel. It raised fewer questions, certainly, than trying to pay in cash, and all of the reservations were made in her name rather than my alter ego’s.

The area we needed to visit was the magical town of Ballyfermot, in Dublin’s western suburbs. Once we arrived and settled in, we could hire a taxi, take a bus, or try to Apparate to the area. Neither of us having visited the town before, we concluded that wasn’t the best idea. I thought that my parents might have taken me there once, but I couldn’t have been more than four or five years old, so I wouldn’t have had any useful memories to call upon for such a purpose.

On that Thursday morning, Hermione was feeling particularly edgy. I was sure that much of it was a result of her core issues, but there was also a good bit of trepidation over what we’d learn on our trip. I tried to distract her with a mid-morning shag, but her mind was clearly on something else and we did nothing more than a bit of kissing and cuddling. I was concerned that she’d be in a tough state by the time we checked in to the hotel. Since I had no idea at that time what the ferry accommodations were like, I resolved to make her carry my wand once we were clear of the docks. I recall hoping it would make enough of a difference that we’d make it through the trip without having to find a loo for a quickie.

It turned out that Hermione, as brilliant as I knew she was, had the foresight to secure a private cabin for us. It wasn’t large enough for hanky-panky – just two seats facing each other, separated by a small fold-up table – but it did have a door with a pull-down shade. We took full advantage, with her seated on my lap for a substantial portion of the journey. While it wasn’t blatantly sexual, all that kissing and caressing had me in quite a state by the time we reached Dublin. I knew I needed to be patient, and dinner was definitely required, if her growling stomach hadn’t been demand enough, but I had every intention of making love to her for half the night. 

As it turned out, we combined our goals for the evening. The trip, while not taxing in a physical sense, had been rather draining. Sitting in one spot for so many hours, even with periodic strolls through the ferry, was not what either of us would have called a great time. It had given us time to talk, though, and we’d had a heart-to-heart about expectations over what we were likely to discover. That had probably been, if I thought about it, what had sapped our energy so much. It hadn’t been a light-hearted chat, and I know I was probably snippier than I should have been.

When we finally arrived at the hotel, it was nearly eight o’clock, and neither of us were eager to seek out a restaurant, nor even venture down to the hotel’s on-site facility. We decided to order room service – a selection of finger-foods and snacks – and sat on the bed wearing next to nothing while feeding each other from the generously filled platter. It’s a very intimate thing to feed someone from your own hand. At least, it seemed that way between us. Every drop of sauce or stray crumb was an excuse to kiss it away or lick it off, it seemed. I’m pretty certain that it eventually became mutually deliberate. So although we were both knackered, we managed to work up enough energy to create a rather sensual connection. I even worked up the energy to remove the food tray from the bed first. It was all rather delicious, and we slept tangled together until my wand vibrated on the nightstand at the pre-set time of seven o’clock.

Since neither of us were familiar with the town, we determined that we needed plenty of time to find the resources for which we’d come. New Glamours in place, we had a quick breakfast of oatmeal and tea in the hotel restaurant that we’d eschewed the night before, and visited the gift shop to look for a local map. While we knew there wouldn’t be one that detailed the magical area to which we were headed, we still needed something that would help us to get there. We were lucky enough to find one that also outlined bus and rail routes, and discovered that there was fairly regular service to Chapelizod, the town immediately adjacent to our destination. We’d only have to walk a half-mile or so, far less daunting than we’d feared.

The trip via light rail only took about twenty minutes from the center of Dublin, and the short walk to the gateway leading to the magical town about ten minutes more. By nine o’clock, we’d strolled through the main thoroughfare from one end to the other, just making note of what shops and services were located where. We discovered that, similar to Hogsmeade, most of the businesses were on two intersecting streets surrounded by a small village of residences. We’d known that it was not a bustling metropolis, but we hadn’t counted on just how tiny the town actually was. We were strangers here, and that garnered more than a few sidelong glances and outright stares.

To minimize that discomfort, I surreptitiously cast Notice-Me-Not charms on both of us. They were as effective as we could have hoped, but not nearly as obtrusive as a Disillusionment charm. That would have been overkill and would have made our task that much more difficult. While the stares were nipped in the bud, the anti-notice charms did allow us to interact with others when it was necessary or advantageous.

Although the town was too small to host a public library, we learned that the local bookstore (The Magic of Words) maintained an archive of back editions of the Irish counterpart to the UK’s Daily Prophet – The Dublin Diary. We determined that this was the place where we were most likely to find much of what we needed. The remaining businesses that we might have patronized would need to wait until later, at least until we’d gained some understanding of what had happened in the wizarding world during our absence.

Upon entering the bookstore, we were not greeted until I made a direct approach to one of the clerks. The charm had worked exactly as designed. I told the tall, skinny teenager that we were doing some research for a business project and needed access to newspapers covering the last two years. The charms seemed to discourage curiosity, too, because he led us to the “reading room” – a small alcove near the rear of the store which was set apart from the main gallery by a folding screen - without a single question. He briefly showed us how the materials were organized and left without another word.

Hermione had already removed her coat, placing it on the back of a chair near one of the four small tables in the room. The perimeter was lined with long, thin drawers, each labeled with a date range. It seemed that the collection of old editions was limited to the last ten years. A note posted on the wall indicated that older materials were available by request. I remember thinking that the system seemed more Muggle than magical; there should have been a more efficient way to manage the documents using shrinking and enlarging spells. Why that mattered at all, I couldn’t tell you. We only needed more recent information, anyway.

“Where would you like to start?” Hermione asked. “It probably doesn’t make sense to look at something too recent; the context might be lost.”

I agreed and suggested that it made sense to go back to the weeks immediately after her departure and work forward. “The Monday editions are usually the biggest ‘news’ days, so let’s stick to those as a start,” I suggested.

“Makes sense,” she said as she moved to the drawers in search of the labels for June, 1998. Upon opening the appropriate drawer, she noted with equal amounts of satisfaction and anxiety, “They’ve got both the Prophet and the Dublin Diary.”

She pulled out five editions of each newspaper, covering a month’s news. “Which do you want?”

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to see the Prophet first,” I said. She handed me the stack and I opened the June 1st edition to see her face featured on the front page below the fold along with the headline, “Granger Sentencing Set for Wednesday.” I set that one aside. I knew enough about what had happened that I didn’t think there would be anything especially useful and the last thing I wanted to do was to reopen those wounds. Of course, I had to acknowledge that everything we’d read that day was likely to do that.

The June 8th edition wasn’t much more helpful. It simply rehashed her sentencing and added the detail that she was required to vacate the wizarding UK by the subsequent Friday. There was a small article on page two that referenced me, stating that my eighteenth birthday had passed without any news of my survival or demise, and that my parents were still actively exploring all avenues to determine my fate. That told me that their own situations had not been settled by that point. Finding nothing else of use, I returned those two copies to the drawer and retrieved several more.

The first edition that would have been published after her departure was the one for June 15th and I decided that I needed to review that one more carefully. On the opposite side of the table, Hermione had been very quiet, but her expression was one of determination rather than distress, so I left her to her task. I knew that she’d speak up if she found anything pertinent.

The fact that I’d done so little magic over the past months was hampering my creative thinking. The household charms that I’d done were such mundane magic that I felt that my skills as a wizard were eroding rather markedly. It took me twenty minutes of poring over the parchment before I realized that I could cast a charm to highlight any story with the name “Malfoy” in it. Just for kicks, I added “Granger” so that I could take note of any developments that might have applied to Hermione’s situation. I handed my wand to her so that she could duplicate the charm on the papers she was reviewing; this little piece of magic saved us hours in time and effort.

I was able to flip through each edition quickly, then, first finding another article about the search for the missing heir to the Malfoy fortune, then another about me having been declared “presumed dead” – just as Hermione had said – but that final pronouncement would not be made until the first of two events, either the discovery and positive identification of my remains or the passage of seven years. Well, that was new information, and from what little I understood about how wizarding law worked, very important. That meant that I had close to five years before I was declared legally dead, negating any claim I had to property or accounts that were either in my own name or in any inheritance. It also meant that any attempt that I did make to retrieve funds using my actual identity would immediately change the equation. If I wanted what was in my vaults, I’d have to either reveal myself to be alive or find a way to access it through an intermediary. That could get tricky.

There wasn’t much more in the next six weeks of news, but one article – on the front page, of course – had me fuming. It seemed that the Wizengamot, in its infinite wisdom, decided to freeze all Malfoy assets until the outcome of my parents’ trials. They made a point to include my personal accounts as well as those for my parents. How annoyingly predictable. Hermione looked up sharply when she heard me utter a vehement “Fuck!” in response. I waved her off when she tried to question me. “Later,” I said curtly. “I need to absorb this.” I know I was unnecessarily harsh with her, but I figured I’d find a way to make up for it later.

In all the news I’d reviewed, this was the first mention of the charges against them, and they weren’t trivial. My father was charged with sedition against the sovereign and duly installed government, multiple counts of use of Unforgiveable curses, and multiple counts of aggravated assault. It seemed that my mother’s situation was slightly less dire. She had been charged with two counts of aiding and abetting sedition. I wondered for a moment why there were two counts, but the reason was made clear in the next paragraph, as long as one was skilled in reading between the lines. I did claim that ability.

“Draco L. Malfoy, son of Lucius A. Malfoy and Narcissa Malfoy, nee Black, was charged in absentia with one count of sedition against the sovereign and duly installed government. The younger Malfoy, however, has not been seen since the Battle of Hogwarts on 2 May, 1998. Although no body has been positively identified, he was one of eight people reported missing after the hostilities ended, likely corresponding to the eight charred bodies located in the rubble of a section of the castle. Malfoy has been declared “presumed dead” and will remain in legal limbo until either a positive identification is made from the remains - an unlikely prospect, given the condition of the corpses - or seven years have passed without his return. The Wizengamot has ruled in an act of mercy that his record will be vacated if or when he is declared deceased. Should he return or be apprehended prior to the seven-year statute of limitations expiring, he will face trial, as has been true of all followers who bore the Dark Mark of the wizard who styled himself as ‘Lord Voldemort.’”

I remember the harsh scrape of my chair against the floor as I pushed away from the table, and Hermione’s worried voice as she called after me when I tore out of the room like a bat out of hell. I growled back at her as I cleared the alcove, “I need a few minutes. I’ll be back.”

I don’t know whether she called after me or tried to follow, because I was entirely lost in my own thoughts. I was livid, and worried, and feeling helpless. I’d reached the conclusion that there would be no going back, no matter what. No one had forgiven me anything – not that I’d really expected them to – but the knowledge of it staring at me in black and white was overwhelming. I probably had no choice but to forfeit whatever was left of the money in my accounts, unless I could get very creative and immensely lucky. I kicked myself for not having cleaned them out before my escape, but I know that I’d rationalized that I’d be able to find a way back at some point. How naïve I’d been.

The weather had turned to match my mood, and when I left the bookstore, the day that had been bright and sunny was now grey and blustery. Although it wasn’t raining, the skies were threatening. I ran, to nowhere in particular and without taking note of my direction. The theme should have been familiar, but I was not yet in a mental state to recognize what I was doing. I just needed to move, to put what I’d learned behind me in whatever way I could.

I must have run for ten minutes or more before a cramp in my calf pulled me up short. Breathing heavily, I leaned against a wooden fence and tried to calm myself. When I’d finally gathered my wits about me, I realized that I had no idea where I was. I’d run far from the central business area and into one of the residential neighborhoods, and I knew that it would take me a good bit of concentration to make my way back. I hadn’t even taken my wand, leaving it with Hermione. I could have kicked myself for not taking into account how she would feel about me disappearing on her in an obvious state of distress. I hoped that she realized that it wasn’t about her, but I wouldn’t blame her if she leapt to conclusions. I’d just proved that I was particularly adept at that behavior.

I won’t lie. Part of me was tempted to just keep running. I had my ferry ticket in my pocket and I could easily board the next boat back to Liverpool, gather my things, and be gone before Hermione even realized what had happened. That part, though, was a little bit less dominant than the chunk of me that shriveled at the thought of being completely alone again, especially if it meant that it would be without her. That brought me up short again. Merlin, what a horrible thing it would be to do to her, abandoning her without so much as a goodbye. My rational brain started to emerge from under my anxiety and I finally remembered that I still hadn’t discovered the entire story. What I’d learned had been published before my parents’ trials had even been held. There was every possibility that things could have turned out in a favorable way. The niggling thought that they could just as easily have turned to shit was quick behind. I understood somewhere deep in my soul that wasn’t being logical about any of it. Reacting from pure panic wasn’t something that I’d done in months. Why should I revert to that stupidity? I needed to go back. I wanted to go back. I recall lifting a prayer to the heavens that she’d still be there when I returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darlings - my updates may be slightly less regular over the next few weeks, depending on the outcome of a client meeting on Tuesday. If all goes well, my creative writing time may be somewhat curtailed. Fear not, the story is well laid out and the delays shouldn't be more than a week at a time.

**Author's Note:**

> So, that's the set-up, folks. What do you think? Is your curiosity piqued?


End file.
